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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249602">First</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/pseuds/TheAudity'>TheAudity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>First Verse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Timeline: Timeline One, Canon Compliant Major Character Death, F/M, INDEFINITE HIATUS, Implied/Referenced Suicide Attempt (Past), M/M, Major Character Death 5x02 Compliant, References to Depression, Technically a Season 1 AU, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unreliable Narrator, chance encounters, vests are objectively the sexiest clothing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:01:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>63,012</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/pseuds/TheAudity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentin Coldwater's future was waiting. It had been waiting for him, hoping he would grow up already and face reality, and now he was here. All he had to do was walk through the damn door. </p><p> </p><p>[Alternatively, Timeline One. In which magic is discovered, losses are had, and everyone is woefully unprepared.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater &amp; Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>First Verse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Unauthorized Meetings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to my dear friend, PrinceOf Arles, for being my Beta Reader and Cheerleader. This story never would have happened without you reminding me how much I love to write. Diglett Dig, motherfucker.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Quentin counts to seven. Julia wants takeout. Eliot borrows a phone</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>I want to know </p><p>Where do we go</p><p>When nothing's wrong</p><p>                -Jeremy Aucker</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>His future was waiting. It had been waiting for him, hoping he would grow up already and face reality, and now he was here. All he had to do was <em> walk through the damn door. </em> There was no quest, no grand adventure, just a door to a home, behind which lived an alumnus who he needed to at least vaguely impress. Simple. Easy.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin Coldwater raised his hand to the brass knocker. He faltered, and lowered it again.This was ridiculous, who did he think he was? Interviewing for a Graduate program at Yale, really? Please, he was just one more high strung millennial, hiding behind a slouch and too-long hair and an above average GPA. He had barely survived Columbia, how the <em> fuck </em> was he supposed to survive Yale? And if he did make it, where did he go from there? Did he stay in academia forever, waiting to have his shit together, or eventually would he give up and move on, pretending everything was fine until he finally snapped in half. Quentin’s hands found their way to his scalp, pulling at his hair in an attempt to stay grounded. It almost worked.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, he imagined he would walk through the doorway, and the warm June New York air and the bustling Chelsea sidewalks behind him would go quiet. The path before him would lead not to an interview that would push him further into the next age of his life, but through time and space, to a world between the walls. He would enter the gate and leave New York behind, finding himself in a lush world of greenery, and mystery, and magic. A place like Fillory, like so many of the stories he read in his youth. It was a stupid, childish fantasy, and he knew it. This was exactly the sort of thought he was trying to leave behind, what he needed to let go of, so why couldn’t he?</p><p> </p><p>He also imagined traveling to a much more familiar world,  characterized by beige walls and the smell of antiseptic, long hallways and the safe feeling of being able to hand his dread to someone else, at least for a little while. He sighed. Maybe he should have never left the hospital.</p><p> </p><p>That wasn’t true and he knew it, he corrected. Being out was better, it was always better, but that didn’t mean the hospital hadn’t been easier. That was the problem though, wasn’t it? He always looked for the easy way out, be it his books, pushing his problems onto others (at least this time, they were professionals), or his...darker impulses.</p><p> </p><p><em>(The walls in these places were always so sterile, so cold. Yeah, </em>alright<em>, no one went into inpatient care for the view, but would it kill these guys to make everything less gray? Even the potted plants in the main lobby seemed to be lacking saturation when he had checked himself in.</em></p><p> </p><p><em>Had he really only checked in three days ago? Quentin wasn’t complaining, it was refreshing to feel so collected so soon, but he had planned to stay for at least a week. Obviously, he wasn’t </em>better<em>, he would likely never be better , a fact that could be read it all over him. The cuff of his sweatshirt was almost all raw edges from being worried at, and he could never quite lose his habit of tensing his jaw to the point of physical pain, but at least now he felt like he could see clearly.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dr. London was good at her job, always had been. She didn’t sugar coat anything, she just cut right through the bullshit and told it like it was. She, unfortunately, had been seeing him as a patient since he was at his worst, hence they were even having this discussion.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"On admitting, you reported you couldn't concentrate, eat, get out of bed. You said the feeling of not belonging anywhere was overwhelming. And now, you feel better?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>She was ever the professional, Quentin couldn’t help but observe. Her  glasses were perfectly in place, not a single hair was lose from her ponytail, and her gaze remained level and calm. Still, none of that could quite negate the slight tone of incredulousness in her voice. Quentin leveled his gaze back to her, fighting the urge to brush his hair back, lest it look like his anxiety was rising. It wasn’t, it definitely wasn’t.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I mean, I get it."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Get?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>He fought his anxious urges again, hands twitching under the table. </em>Deep breaths, not too deep, don’t look like you’re trying too hard<em>. "You're a kid, and you're whole life's ahead of you, and you have all these notions about what life is, and what it could be. But eventually, you have to let all that go. That's what I'm– that's what I'm doing."</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>She took off her glasses, and folded them delicately. A brief glimpse under the armor she had built up, a small show of vulnerability.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Quentin, I do think you should stay for further-”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“And I get it, I do.” He interjected. “But I’m not a threat to myself, and I’m not a threat to anyone else, so I’m allowed to leave.”)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She was right, He should have stayed longer. But now wasn’t the time for that. Now, all he had to do was <em> knock on the fucking door, </em>and then he would blow this interview out of the water. Then, Yale, and a future, and maybe his entire fucking life would mean <em> something </em> . All he had to do was pull off this one interview, impress <em> one </em> alumnus, and he was set. <em> Just take a deep breath, straighten your shoulders, stand upright, and knock. Piece of cake. </em></p><p> </p><p><em>Well, here goes nothing</em>. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Well, there went nothing. </p><p> </p><p>The interview probably couldn’t have gone worse if he had tried. It was hard to pinpoint exactly where everything had gone downhill, especially when everything had gone downhill, but he had a few ideas.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m telling you Jules, it really was that bad, I’m not exaggerating!”</p><p> </p><p>“Q, come on, we both know you have a bad habit of blowing things out of proportion. Remember in high school when you thought Greg Carmichael was planning to stab you because you beat him at cards?”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t <em> just </em> beat him at cards, he decided I was cheating, <em>and</em> he broke my nose!”</p><p> </p><p>“Were you cheating?”</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, that’s not the point!”</p><p> </p><p>Julia Wicker laughed on the other end of the call, and God, did he love her. Not romantically, not anymore, but he had no idea who he would be without her. His tension was far from gone, his voice still strained in his throat, but somehow, she managed to be a balm to his raw nerves, just by being her, even when she didn't quite get how bad his brain was. Years ago, Quentin remembered seeing a program about cheetahs in captivity at zoos. They were a nervous species by nature, and generally not great at taking social cues. Handlers had found a way around this by raising them alongside dogs. The dogs would provide them with direction, help them to manage their nervous energy, and most importantly, give them companionship. Since he was 9 years old, Julia Wicker had been the dog to his cheetah. Together, they had explored fantasy kingdoms within their backyards. She had defended him to her friends when they called him a creep, he held her when she cried over her first middle school boyfriend dumping her, they discovered Fillory together. When he was sixteen, she had literally talked him off the ledge of their school roof, never stopping to patronize him about stealing the keys from the janitor, stayed with him all night while he looked for the words to tell his dad. She remained comfortably by his side the entire way to the hospital, and held him so tight before leaving. <em> “You’re going to be just fine, Q,” </em> she had whispered, <em> “I’ll be right here waiting for you.” </em> </p><p> </p><p>How the hell he hadn’t scared her off that night was a damn miracle. Most people weren’t lucky enough to hold on to their childhood friends through normal growing up, let alone actual trauma. Yet, she was still here. Clearly, all of the luck the universe had to offer him had gone towards keeping Julia in his life. Some days, it was even enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Look, that’s not the point, the point is that I <em> really did </em> that badly. When Mr. Greene got to the door, I thought he was going for a handshake but he was just directing me in, so that was awkward, then my palms wouldn’t stop sweating, then he asked to see my thesis, which I dropped all over the floor, and <em> of course </em> it wasn’t in order when I handed it to him, and-”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, hey, it’s alright, just breathe, okay?”</p><p>She was right, of course. He was starting to hyperventilate, and working himself up into a frenzy was not going to make this situation any better. All the breathing exercises in the world weren’t going to change the reality of the situation though.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it though? Jules, you’re going to kill your interview, we both know that, and you’re going to go off, and live an amazing and crazy life, and I’ll just be here,-”</p><p> </p><p>“And maybe you’re wrong, and you’ll come with me. Or maybe you’re not, and I’ll come back and visit you, and you’ll do something incredible here. Or maybe you won’t, and you’ll just take some time to find yourself. Whatever happens, you know I’ll be here, don’t you?” </p><p> </p><p>Quentin had stopped, leaning against the Manhattan storefronts that separated him from the subway station.<em> Breathe in, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,</em> <em>breathe out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and repeat</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, you’re right, I’m being kind of selfish right now, aren’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>“You are but you’ve had a shit day. It’s alright.”</p><p> </p><p>The conversation fell silent while Quentin got his breathing in order. The breathing excercises were dumb, but at least it was something he could control. Fuck, he would kill for a smoke right now, why did he quit last week? Maybe he still had one or two cigarettes hidden in his room. Maybe by the time he got back, he wouldn't need them anymore. Julia, ever patient, didn’t try to push the conversation. He knew she was right, and she knew it too, he just needed time to catch up with her. <em>In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,</em> <em>out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and repeat</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Still, I’m sorry Jules. I- I shouldn’t be throwing this in your face. It’s not your fault I fucked up, and I should be happy for you. And I am, I swear I am! I just-”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to apologize, really. Hey, how about instead of heading home, you head over here? James and I were planning on ordering takeout and watching Starship Troopers, we’d love your company.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin blinked his frustration back. One day, Julia would realize that he was more trouble than he was worth. One day, she would realize that she didn’t have the energy to keep helping him. One day, she would realize he was better off on that roof. He was just grateful that day wasn’t today.</p><p> </p><p>“That sounds- That sounds really, really great, I’ll just, uh, I’m going to be out here a bit longer? Still- still decompressing, so- yeah”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, just, send me a text when you’re on your way. We’re not starting the movie till seven, and with your lit degree and my poli-sci, I’m pretty sure we can make James regret his film choice within 20 minutes.”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s there to regret? It’s one of the greatest, misunderstood satures of fascism ever put to film.” Julia chuckled in response.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, tonight’s gonna be fun. I’ll see you tonight Q, stay out of trouble till then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Kay, bye.”</p><p> </p><p>And once more, Quentin was alone, with only the Manhattan sidewalks and his thoughts for company. <em>In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,</em> <em>out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, </em>ok, so he bombed his interview, but his thesis was good. You didn’t graduate summa cum laude with a bad thesis, right? And people had bad interviews all the time, it didn’t stop them from getting jobs, or promotions, or getting into other programs, but shit, this wasn’t any program, this was <em>Yale</em>- Quentin stopped himself mid thought. Spiraling wasn’t going to do him any good, he needed to focus, to stay grounded. <em>In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,</em> <em>out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, </em>he needed to put things into perspective, <em>realistic</em> perspective, and stop catastrophizing. Ok, best case scenario: the interview wasn’t actually as bad as he thought. It was an awkward introduction, and he came across as disorganized, but his work was good, and maybe he recovered in the second half better than he thought. He would go to Grad school with Julia, and maybe get a job as a professor after graduation. Worst case scenario: he did so much worse than he thought. Mr. Greene would be so concerned with what a mess he had been that he would tell the admissions department about his behavior, and they would request his academic records from Columbia. They wouldn’t find anything damning, but would find a medical leave of absence for a few months of his freshman year, and hell, <em>maybe </em>they would even trace it back to the Midway Clinic. They wouldn’t know why he was there, thank God, but they might make assumptions, maybe that he was on drugs or something. They would put a black mark on his application, and then no graduate program would be willing to touch him, and-</p><p> </p><p>And he really, really hated this game.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin closed his eyes to the streets around him. It was 3:00 on a Thursday, so the sidewalks were far from busy, but in this city they would never truly be empty. Still, with his eyes shut and his back to the wall, he could pretend to be alright, for a moment at least.</p><p> </p><p><em>In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,</em> <em>out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,</em></p><p> </p><p>He tried, desperately, to drown out the sounds of the city.There weren’t many, there really, really weren’t, but every one seemed to have been amplified in his mind; the whirring of bicycle couriers racing by, a muted phone conversation <em> of course I didn’t forget dear, I’m on my way right now- </em>, solid footsteps, stopping to his left, the door of the shop beside him opening and closing, it’s bell ringing with each new patrol. Maybe if he just picked one to focus on, he could calm his shit sooner. Maybe-</p><p> </p><p>“So, I don’t know if you’re just having a bad day, or tripping <em>hard</em>, but you look like you need this.”</p><p> </p><p>Jesus, of course this was his luck. All Quentin wanted was to be alone, and invisible, and now some strangers were having a conversation next to him, and he would need to move, which would draw attention to himself, and it was stupid and petty, but this was <em> his </em>spot first, damn it, and-</p><p> </p><p>“Or you can keep ignoring me, that works just as well.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin opened his eyes, and was met with an outstretched hand in his left periphery, holding a pack of hestia’s. He turned to his right, certain that there was someone else present, but only found ivy covered brick, and a sign advertising unicorn frappucinos. Turning back to his left, he finally remembered that language was a thing, and maybe he should reply.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, were you talking to me?”</p><p> </p><p>And his breath.</p><p> </p><p>Fucking.</p><p> </p><p>Stopped.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin looked around again, completely sure that the newcomer was speaking to someone else, someone he just hadn’t noticed yet. All he could spot was a woman walking a small dog across the street, a busy looking man entering the shop behind him, and two teenagers exiting with the aforementioned unicorn frappes. They looked awful. The man with the cigarettes, did not. He had slipped the pack back into the pocket of his vest, <em> who the hell still wore vests? </em>, and was leaning against the same wall Quentin occupied, artfully exhaling a stream of smoke. This guy, who couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than him, carried an absolutely effortless sense of confidence that Quentin couldn’t have copied with a decade of practice. What it must feel like, to be that at home in a world that was always intent on reminding you that it didn't care </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I-I assumed you were talking to someone else, so-”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, this is going to be fun,” the stranger chuckled, bringing the cigarette to his lips again. There was a richness to his voice, and god, even that was dripping with self-assuredness. “No, I was speaking to you. The offer still stands, for the record.” He began reaching for his pocket again. Quentin began to stop him, end their interactions before they could begin, but stopped himself instead  He was really fucking twitchy right now, and fuck, he could really use a smoke.</p><p> </p><p>“If you’re serious, then- thanks, I could really use one.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin attempted a smile, aiming for gratitude, but fearing that his expression was heading more into ‘why we don't talk to strangers’ territory. The new guy smiled back, his face falling somewhere between ‘effortlessly coy’ and ‘I’ll eat you alive, if you ask nicely’. He reached over with a hestia, and then a lighter. Quentin tried not to fumble too much during the exchange, but managed to nearly drop the cigarette, twice. After an appreciative nod, and a silent recognition of said nod, the two fell into a comfortable silence, letting the nicotine do its job. The quiet didn'tn’t last long, but somehow, the companionable atmosphere survived.</p><p> </p><p>“So, it is the drugs, or the bad day, because freaking out in public outside a shitty coffee shop really doesn’t narrow it down” And with that,Quentin couldn’t help but laugh. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit him all at once; he was sharing smokes, with a stranger, who thought there was a real possibility that he’s on a bad trip, and was being completely nonchalant about the matter. Where the hell else could you have this conversation except New York?</p><p> </p><p>“It’s-it’s definitely the bad day, yeah”</p><p> </p><p>“Slightly less interesting, but fair. Want to talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Definitely </em> not.”</p><p> </p><p>“Want to drink until it stops bothering you?” Quentin turned to stare, giving him a very pointed, hopefully not too confused look, and checked his phone.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s only 3:30?”</p><p> </p><p>“Your point?” The stranger raised an eyebrow at him, and <em> shit </em> , that expression looked good on him. Quentin looked away, and tried to swallow the pit in his throat, the one telling him ‘ <em> you know this is probably part of an elaborate joke, right? He doesn’t want to talk to you, or maybe he does, but it’s just so he can sell your organs on the black market’, </em>and other helpful ideas his brain liked to supply. The thoughts don’t want to go down, but this time, maybe he can force them back.</p><p> </p><p>“....alright, let’s go.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“And <em> then </em>, I’m pretty sure I mixed Campbell and Neumann up,-”</p><p> </p><p>“You did<em> not,” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I<em> totally </em> did! And like, that’s <em> pretty freaking bad </em>, considering my entire thesis is like, on how Jung’s writings influenced them differently, so, you know, cheers to that!”</p><p> </p><p>Apparently, he did want to talk about it. Strange. All things considered though, this was an improvement. Mr. Tall Dark and not a <em> single fucking curl out of place </em>had dragged him to a bar a few blocks away, that somehow Quentin had completely missed earlier. Not that he was looking for one earlier, he just usually thought he was more aware of his surroundings than that. Hyper-aware even. Typically, it was pretty annoying. The space was small and moody, all dark wood and amber lights. There was also an apparent advantage to day drinking, since you essentially had the place to yourself, and other patrons had only just started trickling in in earnest. The countertops were slightly sticky, and Quentin was pretty sure the lighting was intentional, to hide discoloration on the old bar stools, but fuck it, he was several drinks in and didn’t care. </p><p> </p><p>His companion had opted for gin over anything the bar had on tap (<em> I’m not going to waste my time on an objectively awful drink just because it’s what everyone else chooses to drink, for some terrible reason </em> ) ( <em> I mean, it’s cheap, and I just wanna get drunk </em> ) ( <em> Like I said, some terrible reason </em>), and somehow, Quentin didn’t think he was a complete and total dick. No, wait, that wasn’t true, he was definitely a dick. He was prickly, and sharp tongued, and completely unapologetic about it, and yet, Quentin found himself drawn into his magnetic field. Julia probably would have laughed at him, called this his ‘delayed bad boy phase’, but whatever. He was drunk, he was laughing, and he was going to keep having a good time.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh god, I’ve been talking about this for, like, what, an hour?" Perhaps it was just the alcohol doing it's job, but Quentin's voice managed to contain none of it's typically self loathing.There was still a part of him, (the quiet, insidious, self doubting part), that couldn’t help but wonder what, if anything, his drinking companion was getting out of any of this. That part of him, at least they right now, was becoming surprisingly easy to ignore." Sorry, I just guess I get- I mean- you know-”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no, no, a word of advice,” and Quentin swallowed, how the hell could someone be graceful, even when interrupting them? “<em> Never </em>, and I do mean never, apologize for having passion. Believe me, it beats the alternative.”</p><p> </p><p>At that, Quentin scoffed. “Yeah, right, ‘cause my passion for literature is going to come with so many opportunities.” The man to his side cocked his head slightly, and looked somewhere to the middle distance. God, he was attractive. God, Quentin was drunk.</p><p> </p><p>“You could always write a book. That is what every angsty, floppy haired, emo boy wants to do, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you just call me emo?”</p><p> </p><p>And suddenly, he was staring directly at him, with that mildly amused, nonchalant grin that Quentin had no idea how to process. He didn’t know whether to laugh, or throw back something snarky. Quentin, being Quentin, did neither and broke eye contact as soon as possible, draining the last of his bottle in one go.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, that was the plan in high school, I just didn’t know what to write about. Everything I could think of was just, too derivative. I didn’t want to rip off better writers, you know? Besides, Rowling already cornered the market on that one” He stretched out over the bartop as he spoke, and fought the urge to lay his head on the bar-top. God, it was cool, and it felt nice, and he was <em> sitting up now </em> god damn it. “And then, like, you’re supposed to be getting ready for college, and for having a fucking life, and I didn’t know how to do that, let alone write a book? And everyone was telling me to get my shit together, so I just went with the easiest option, studied books instead. And now I’ve got a great degree, but no next step, and definitely no plan.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now <em> that </em> I can relate to. God, my school is on my ass right now, and not in a remotely fun way mind you, about <em> finding a mentor </em> , and <em> planning for life after graduation </em> , and <em> coming up with a decent thesis </em>, and of course, in typical academic fashion they are providing no real advice or resources, so, cheers to that as well.”</p><p> </p><p>The two clinked glasses, as wrong as it seemed with an empty bottle. Neither one commented on it.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, what about you? What dragged you to Manhattan today?”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin turned towards his….temporary friend? Acquaintance? Person? His companion chuckled to himself, took another drink of his gin, and Quentin couldn’t help but smile back. A sense of quiet ease had come over him, dulling the rougher edges of his earlier moods, and it wasn't entirely the alcohols doing. Maybe it was just the inherent comfort found in being honest with a stranger, being able to be truly himself without fear of repercussion for what he might say the next day. Said stranger grinned into his glass, as though he may have been thinking the same.</p><p> </p><p>“Firstly, I’m insulted that you didn’t assume I live here-”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re millennials, we can’t afford the rent.”</p><p> </p><p>“But we do have plenty of avocados.” He retorted, Quentin’s interruption not making him skip so much as a beat. “And actually, I’m here because of said useless, nonexistent school resources. Like I said, they want to see a halfway decent thesis, fuck if I know why, and I heard about an antique bookstore up here. Figured I would say I needed to research something there, get the faculty off my back and make a day of it. You know how it is.” His new friend’s facade had changed over the last...how long had they been here? Well, It didn’t matter. He was still just as effortlessly above the general chattering around him, but at the same time, seems stiffer than he had been a moment ago. Still open, still charismatic, but somehow more composed.  </p><p> </p><p>Quentin would have questioned the subtle change in behavior more, would have over thought if his companion was simply uncomfortable with the subject, or bored of him, or a million other possibilities , if he wasn’t so fixated on his companion’s last words. His jaw went slack, but hey, what was gross motor control in the face of a few rounds.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s an <em> antique bookstore </em> here and I didn’t see it? I love books!”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I’ve <em> definitely </em> noticed.” There was a playful lilt in his voice, that somehow managed to not be condescending, which was a huge accomplishment on it’s own, especially considering-</p><p> </p><p>“Did you just boop my chin?” And oh god, if his personality wasn’t so magnetizing, his laugh would have done Quentin in right then and there. He just hoped like hell that his flush wasn’t too prominent</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. You were rambling, it was adorable. Sue me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have... very conflicting feelings right now. Do it again.” He obliged, and Quentin could feel his entire face twitch. “Yeah, no, I’m not nearly sober enough to process that.”</p><p> </p><p>“The fact that you’re even worried about that tells me you’re not nearly drunk enough either.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fair, but I really shouldn’t drink any more.” Honestly, he shouldn’t have been drinking at all, with the cocktail of antidepressants he was supposed to be taking on the regular, but Quentin knew that thought was too little too late before it was even formed.</p><p> </p><p>“I disagree, but, to each their own.” His companion retorted, and finished his drink with a flourish. The silence that lingered for the next few moments should have been anxiety inducing, between the sounds of other patrons finally filling in the room around them, the occasional glances from the bartender wondering whether they were going to get another round or get off his counter, and the underlying question of <em> what the fuck am I even doing here </em>, but those feelings never quite made their way out of the edges of his mind. They were always there, always present, but that space within his mind was their home. He could make them welcome there, and they would stay put for a while. Quentin wasn’t enough of a fool to think they’d ever move out, but he could manage them where they were. He turned his focus back to his temporary friend, not surprised to find him somewhat vacantly staring at the back bar. </p><p> </p><p>Whether it was the drinks or the atmosphere talking, Quentin didn’t mind. Usually, this would be the point in any social gathering where the conversation would trail off, and he would say something awkward, or too nerdy, or completely nonsensical, and run off to hide in his room with his books. However, hiding in the comforting words of Tolkien, or Plover, or Sanderson, wasn’t an option at the moment. But furthermore, Quentin actually <em>wanted</em> to keep talking to him, and it was unlikely he’d ever see this man again, so what did he have to lose? Plus, he’d essentially recited his entire thesis to the guy earlier and he hadn’t left yet. Ergo, he could probably handle a personal question or two.</p><p> </p><p>“So, do you have one?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?” He turned his attention to Quentin, eyes strikingly hazel and not quite focused and <em> was he wearing eyeliner?,</em> and Quentin willed himself not to look away.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, do you have one, a plan, for what’s next? I can’t tell if you do, or you’re just really good at pretending to have your shit together. So, what’s your deal?”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, his companion’s face fell serious, a moment so brief Quentin was sure he had imagined it. No, his smile had definitely been just as effortless during their entire conversation, his movements hadn’t lost a touch of their grace. If his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore, Quentin was definitely imagining it.</p><p> </p><p>“My deal, as you so eloquently put it, is to always keep them guessing what’s next.”</p><p> </p><p>“That was, objectively, not an answer. God, I’ve got a friend who went with poli-sci, and she would probably have an absolute field day wi-oh shit what time is it?”</p><p> </p><p>Julia. He had completely forgotten about meeting with Julia. He had completely forgotten to text her, not that he had even left Manhattan yet, but he really should have let her know he was alright at some point. Frantically, Quentin ripped his phone from his messenger bag to check the time.</p><p> </p><p>5:42.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin fumbled through his bags for a moment, fished out his wallet, and threw a few bills on the bartop. Fortunately, he was intoxicated enough to not properly panic right now. Unfortunately, if he wasn’t on a subway in the next 5 minutes, he would definitely be late.</p><p> </p><p><em> Good thing the nearest subway station is 10 minutes away </em>, his brain helpfully supplied.</p><p> </p><p>“I am so, so sorry, this has been a great time, but I promised a friend I would see her tonight, and I just, god I totally lost track of time, I hate to run, sorry, gah, but seriously, it was nice meeting you, yeah, um-” Fortunately, he was interrupted before he could embarrass himself much further.</p><p> </p><p>“By all means, go. It's been fun." His eyes had their mirthful sparkle back, and<em> did he just wink at Quentin </em>? How did he manage to do that without looking like a complete douche? “Go on, get out of here, I promise I can take care of myself.”</p><p> </p><p>With a final awkward wave, and a ‘kay, thanks bye’, Quentin shuffled back to the, now much busier, city streets. The entire departure felt oddly anticlimactic, for reasons he couldn’t quite place. The entire appeal of following this guy to a bar and blowing off some steam was the anonymity. He had never asked for his companion’s name, and his companion had never asked for his. For a few hours, they were just two people, able to say whatever came to mind, with no fear of it coming back to affect them later. Making a clean break with no awkward exchanges of phone numbers that Quentin would never work up the nerve to call, and not having to worry about how fast his own number had been thrown away, was honestly ideal. So how come he couldn't let go of the feeling that he would actually like to see this guy again? It was an objectively pointless thought, he knew. The list of people who tolerated him was exceptionally short, and made up of people who had known him for over a decade. That much history was something hard to let go of, even if it was arguably for the best.</p><p> </p><p>The bar surprisingly had quite a crowd out front now. Quentin was grateful that he had at least gotten in and out before the scene became too crowded, too overwhelming. These last few hours had been amazing, but he was really looking forward to a quiet evening with Julia and James, especially when the topic of the evening was something that he and Jules could team up against her boyfriend about.</p><p> </p><p>He was maybe 10 steps from the bar entrance when he heard the call behind him.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, high strung super nerd, wait up!"</p><p> </p><p>Quentin’s first thought was that he must have imagined it. His second thought was that in this decade, ‘high strung super nerd’ probably described half the crowd out here. His third, was <em> what if… </em></p><p> </p><p>Turning back, there he was, impeccably dressed and towering slightly over the crowds congregating at the entrance. Even moving through a seething mass of humanity, he seemed to glide, and before Quentin realized it, his new acquaintance was right in front of him. He smirked slightly, and gazed down at Quentin. Something about his expression made Quentin feel small, but somehow, he didn’t mind.</p><p> </p><p>“You left your phone on the bar, It’s a good thing you hadn’t gotten too far.”</p><p> </p><p> Of course. Very smooth, Coldwater, very smooth. And yet…</p><p> </p><p>Maybe this was the opportunity he had been wanting. He was probably going to be stuck in the city for a while, and this guy was local, or he seemed to be local enough. Maybe now was his time, when he should go out on a limb, try and make new friends. He certainly hadn’t done that in undergrad, and was definitely worse off for it. Quentin took his phone back with an awkward ‘thanks’, slipped his phone back in his back, and cleared his throat. </p><p> </p><p>“My name’s Quentin. Quentin Coldwater.”</p><p> </p><p>He stuck out his hand, and god, if this didn’t feel like the worst rehash of his public speaking class he could imagine. <em> Maintain eye contact, but don’t stare aggressively </em>, and all these other minor details of nonverbal communication that just made him like books more. One moment passed. Then another, and good god Quentin felt like he was dying. The rescuer of his phone stared at his hand, then directly at Quentin. He grinned, which surely was a good sign, right?Another moment, and Quentin learned that his hands, while rougher than he expected, were extremely warm.</p><p> </p><p>“A pleasure meeting you, Quentin.”</p><p> </p><p>...and then he turned and left. Leaving yet another pit in Quentin's chest in his place. That...that could have actually gone worse in so many ways but that objectively sucked. After a moment of daze had passed, he swallowed down the rejection as best he could, and reoriented himself. If he was correct, he should only be a few blocks from the station.</p><p> </p><p>The walk to the station itself passed in a blur. He ran into a few people's shoulders, and tripped over his shoelaces once, but it was a pretty unremarkable four blocks. Quentin was halfway down the steps to the subway when his phone buzzed in his pocket. <em> It's probably Julia, wondering why I haven't texted her yet. Fuck, I hope she doesn't think I'm bailing on her, I'll just reply once I'm on the train, yeah- </em> and his phone buzzed again. That was, definitely unlike Julia. She wasn't the type of person who would double text, unless there was an actual situation, at which point she would be more likely to just call you. The joys of not having phone anxiety.</p><p> </p><p>Once Quentin was at the bottom of the stairs and out of the flow of foot traffic, he slipped his phone back from it's pocket, hoping Julia was alright. Only, the texts weren't from Julia. Both messages were from an unknown number, responding to a winking emoji he definitely had not sent.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: Today - 5:56 PM - You know, you really should keep your phone locked. It was nice to meet you, Quentin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Unknown: Today - 5:57 PM - I’m Eliot, by the way. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Stupid as it was, Quentin couldn't stop himself from grinning. Perhaps that hadn't been as much of a disaster as he thought.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Source of Metamorphosis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Julia hates apples. Quentin goes on a trip. Eliot tells time</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Pushing past the limit, tripping on hallucinogenics</p><p>And then I crawled back to the life that I said I wouldn't live in</p><p>                                       -Matt Maeson</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, you’re <em> what </em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’m not going to Yale.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin stared, agape and definitely not looking like a complete moron. He and Julia had started this tradition of going out to lunch every Friday in freshman year, as a way of keeping up with one another while their studies took them in different directions. They were a favorite tradition of his, since somehow, even with them living together, they seemed to barely have time to catch up most days. As such, these weekly outings at whatever hipster cafe they decided to haunt that day became where they reserved their biggest news for. It was during one of their Friday lunches that Julia told Quentin about how she had secretly been responsible for the chem lab accident that got all Bunsen burners taken out of their high school, where Quentin confessed that when he bailed on her Halloween party, he was actually making out with one or her friends <em> (which one? Erica?- Actually, it was Mark.- Wait, what?! You’re kidding! Wait, doesn’t Mark have a girlfriend?- Well that explains why he didn’t want to swap numbers) </em>,  where Julia admitted she almost broke up with James after a particularly bad junior year semester where she just hated everyone and everything, a regret she still hadn’t told James himself about. This wasn’t the meaningful revelation that so many of their previous lunches had been though. Julia shrugged, and took another bite from her quinoa bowl. She continued her own lunch as though she hadn’t just dropped a paradigm shifting load onto her best friend, while his burrito went completely ignored. Quentin blinked. He blinked again. It was difficult to tell what made less sense; his best friend’s decision to throw away the goal she had been working towards for the last four years, or that the decision was apparently so simple to her that she could discuss it with the same nonchalance she had used five minutes ago when telling Quentin about her new purse. Scratch that, she had actually been excited about the purse. Not going to Yale had barely been a footnote.</p><p> </p><p>It had been a week since his own disastrous interview, which had strangely not been a disastrous day, and five days since Julia’s own, which she had chosen not to discuss. A silent agreement he was all too happy to agree to, and a decision he now feared was for the worst. Yeah, he was doing his best to ignore how much his own interview had sucked, and appreciated Julia not broaching the subject, but what if hers had gone just as badly? What if she had been struggling, had been suffering, and just didn’t say anything because he was so caught up in his own shit? </p><p> </p><p>“I just- Okay, but why? Did something happen? Are you alright?” Julia set down her (nearly finished) bowl and picked up her drink, an ease in her movements that suggested she was discussing something as mundane as what to order for dinner that night, and not whether or not to <em> throw away her plans for grad school. </em> Still, she smiled, and seemed to be fully at ease, confident in her choices and in her plans. Quentin didn’t know how to juxtapose her confidence in her decisions with his fear that she was making a huge mistake. He could only hope that she had a good reason. Objectively, he knew she did, she was the smartest person he knew, of course she had a plan. He was just still...processing.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m actually really great. It’s, you know, it’s not a big deal, I just had a better opportunity come up. I’m pretty excited about it.”</p><p> </p><p>A better opportunity than Yale. Yeah, that actually tracked. Leave it to Julia to shoot for the moon, and surpass every expectation before her. His shock- and possibly fear- slipped away, immediately replaced with a too-large grin and excitement for his friend's new prospects.</p><p> </p><p>“For real? That’s, shit Jules, I’m not even going to ask how you pulled that off, I’m so fucking proud of you. So, what’s the opportunity, where are you going?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not far actually, I was actually invited to a school upstate. It kind of came out of nowhere, but they’re got a really great program.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, they reached out to you? Like, out of the blue?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, halfway. I sort of stumbled into the situation.” She shrugged, like stumbling into a life changing life opportunity was something that simply happened to everyone. Quentin had only just picked his burrito back up, yet he found himself setting it down again, intrigued by the mystery Julia was weaving. God, her smile was infectious, he couldn’t wait to cheer for her as she went down this new road.</p><p> </p><p>“This feels like it’s kind of sudden, but it's good I guess?”</p><p> </p><p>‘No, it’s good. It’s really good Q, <em> magical </em> even. We officially start Monday, and I wanted to let you know before we really jump into things.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wow, that's quite the sell. I haven’t heard you call anything magical since- basically since you started seeing James. I thought you were too ‘grown up’ for all of that now?”</p><p> </p><p>“What can I say, things change. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to forget about what makes life feel more exciting. I’m certainly glad you didn’t.” Julia’s eyes were alight, with the same sort of spark they had as kids whenever they would share some inside joke that no one else in the cafeteria understood. Quentin suddenly sympathized with their table mates a lot more, finally recognizing the power that look had from the outside.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s- wow, that’s incredible, where are you going?”</p><p> </p><p>And with that, her smile fell. The moment lingered far longer than was needed for what was really a simple question. Maybe she didn’t hear him? There were a lot of people out today, interrupting the intended coziness of their platonic lunch date. Maybe they should have just gotten takeout and stayed at the loft. Why hadn’t she asked him to repeat himself yet?</p><p> </p><p>“Q, come on, anything unusual happen on Wednesday? I know you know.” Quentin blinked in surprise. He knew? Knew what? Wednesday? His entire week had been pretty mundane so far. He’d called Julia Monday after her- far more successful- interview, started looking for new apartments in the city, since continuing to share the loft with her and James wouldn’t be an option once they moved to New Haven, went to see that shrink Dr. London had referred him to -oh shit.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, Jules, I’m so sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I, um, I started new meds this week and, um, now that I’m thinking about it I really can’t remember much of Wednesday? Shit, I should probably check on that, I-”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no, sorry, I, um, don’t worry about it. I saw someone at the interview who kind of looked like you, I- I must have been mistaken.” Julia cut him off before he could fully spiral. It was a reasonable explanation, Quentin was pretty average, and if she only got a brief glimpse at the person in question, he could believe her mistaking him with a stranger, even if she’d known him for over a decade. It was also the most unconvincing sentence Julia had ever spoken. He smiled, a reflex more than anything, and possibly an attempt to make his mind stop spinning. They both knew that those studies that claimed smiling made you feel better were absolute horse shit, but the action at least gave him something to do. Better to internally freak out than cause a scene. Regardless, Quentin would be calling Dr. London first thing tomorrow morning, weekend be damned.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, that makes sense. But, you never did say, where are you going?” Julia’s eyes fell further.</p><p> </p><p>‘I… I’m not actually sure I can say.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, I’m sorry, you don’t think you can tell me the <em> name of the school </em> you’re planning on going to?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, can we just pretend I didn’t say anything? It really isn’t that big a deal , I kind of overhyped the whole thing.” At least her smile had returned. It was almost reassuring. It did nothing to ease the knot in his gut. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, I’m just, I’m really lost. If it’s not that big a deal, then why give up Yale for it??”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s-um, it’s complicated.”</p><p> </p><p>As soon as he thought the knot couldn’t get any tighter, his body decided to respond like it was a dare and he was 13 and at a sleepover. There had to be a good explanation for what she was doing, she hadn’t even said she was going to a school, for fucks sake. Maybe it was some sort of government program? Or a private sector gig for a really secretive company? There were likely a million good explanations for what his friend was going into, but he couldn’t think of any of them.</p><p> </p><p>“...It’s <em> complicated </em>? I really feel like I should be concerned here. Jules, what the fuck is going on?” Again, she shrugged. Quentin knew he couldn’t hide an emotion if his life depended on it, and that Julia could read every line of concern, fear, and confusion on his face. Unfortunately, he could read her just as well, and he couldn’t make any sense of the touch of sadness hiding behind her seemingly perfect, calm facade.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, it is, and It’s all still pretty new, I just wanted to give you a heads up that I’m not leaving New York anytime soon, I’m just heading upstate. So, good news, we’ll be able to see each other all the time still.”</p><p> </p><p>He had always been terrible at not prying.</p><p> </p><p>“Julia, please tell me you’re not giving up on Yale just to stay in New York. Is James trying to get you to stay? I thought he was on board with moving to Connecticut, unless he got that internship? Wait, no no no, is this because I bombed? ” Julia’s nonchalance towards the subject was fading fast, which would be a good thing, if she weren’t currently glowering at him, and <em> shit </em> , Quentin had forgotten how intimidating she could be when she was angry. Apparently, she had also forgotten that despite all his bullshit, he was just as stubborn as her, and just as bad at backing down . It was like his brain had the most useless, yet aggressive, override switch. One that activated to say <em> ‘hey, I can fuck up my life all I want, but I’ll make damn sure you don’t do the same’. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Are you fucking serious right now? No, James isn’t pushing me to stay, and  of course I’m worried about you, but have I <em> ever </em> compromised my plans for other people? Really? ”</p><p> </p><p>Well there’s a first time for everything and I can’t think of anything else that’s’ changed”</p><p> </p><p>“The only thing that’s changed is that I don’t want to go to Yale, for my <em> own reasons </em> ! No one else’s! Right now, <em> maybe </em> I just need my best friend to be happy for me.” Her voice wasn’t any louder than it had been a moment ago, but her tone had completely bled over the edge of ‘moderately annoyed that you won’t drop this already’, and was fully within ‘no, we’re really done here’ territory.</p><p> </p><p>It was just her luck that Quentin was really good at ignoring social cues.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’m so sorry that I’m not jumping for joy over my best friend throwing her life away for reasons she won’t share, so-” </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus christ Q!” Julia shouted, not caring that everyone in the cafe had finally stopped to watch the scene before them unfold. She stood, assertive and proud and so sure of herself, and for a moment, Quentin thought she might actually tell him what the fuck happening.“Not everything is about you, okay? So you can stop projecting your bullshit onto me. Just because you didn’t get into Yale doesn’t mean that everyone who decides it’s not for them is ruining their fucking lives!”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a moment when you break something, right before you think <em> what have I done </em> , right before ‘ <em> wait, no, I can fix this’ </em> , right before ‘ <em> where are the rest of the pieces, I can’t lose them now, where are they’- </em> , when everything goes quiet. Where somewhere, in your subconscious, you might be thinking about the duality of creation, and how it takes so much to make but so very little to destroy, or maybe your subconscious is dwelling on how to hide this from your mom, but in that moment, all you’re aware of is the quiet feeling of something being lost, of something not being quite right anymore. Quentin knew that feeling well. He knew it when he was a little kid and he broke his mom’s favorite ashtray. He knew it again when he broke his dad’s bedroom window during a poorly located softball match, and again when he was fifteen and held a blade to his arm for the first time, silently asking why he didn’t just <em> do it </em> already.</p><p> </p><p>It was strange, nonetheless, to be on the receiving end of the silence.</p><p> </p><p>“Julia, is that really what the fuck you think this is about? You just told me you’re running off to a school, or company, or whatever, whose name you can’t tell me, and you can’t tell me what you’re doing there, or why you want to go, and I’m supposed to just say ‘okay cool’ like that’s it? Are you actually getting mad at me for being concerned? I’m not- god, I’m not projecting, I’m trying to be a good friend here.” </p><p> </p><p>He felt frozen in place, and his voice had lost all it’s edge. Quentin knew himself too well to hope he hadn’t sounded like he was pleading. They both knew that was a lost cause. Julia had made no indication that she would be sitting back down. The rest of the cafe, in typical New York fashion, had returned to their conversations, ignoring their fight. Was this an actual fight? He literally couldn’t remember the last time he had fought with Julia. Quentin still couldn’t believe She had gone there. He had only gotten the rejection email yesterday, had only told her about it<em> last night </em> . He’d barely had the time to process how he felt about it, let alone start projecting those feelings onto other people. That usually took, like, a week of self loathing <em> at least </em> to get to.  Julia squared her shoulders, but the tension in them was all wrong. The fire in her eyes had gone from raging to nonexistent in a matter of a second. Now, she just looked tired. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, well how about you try trusting that I’ll tell you what’s going on when I can. ” She held his gaze for a moment, then turned away. <em> Wait, no </em>, Quentin began to get up after her. She couldn’t leave now, not when things were so bad between them. </p><p> </p><p>“Julia, I-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk.” Julia interrupted. She didn’t look back. That said everything she needed to.</p><p> </p><p>Hesitation had always been his weakness. He should have stood sooner, he should have agreed to talk about this later when they were both calm, he should have done a lot of things. Before Quentin was aware of himself, he was on his feet, following her to the door. </p><p> </p><p>“Julia! Julia, come on, Wait!” Fuck this day, fuck this conversation, and fuck the long forgotten other half of his burrito. Quentin wasn’t going to let this conversation end this way. There was no way he was letting Julia leave mad over him being <em> rightfully </em>worried about her. Fortunately, despite everyone in the counter-service joint having gone back to their own business, they were mostly aware enough to move out of his way, and he only had to shove past one person. Unfortunately, by the time he reached the graffiti covered sidestreets, Julia Wicker was long gone.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>After the first ten minutes, Quentin tried calling Julia. After twenty, she finally picked up, only long enough to say “take a hint, I <em> said </em> we’d talk later” and disconnect the call.</p><p> </p><p>After an hour, he stopped trying entirely.</p><p> </p><p>In hindsight, Quentin should have known trying to call her out on what he (in his opinion, very reasonably) feared was a terrible idea was, well, a terrible idea. Julia was smart, easily the most brilliant person he knew. But she was also reckless, and bullheaded, and once she decided a fight was worth fighting, she didn’t know how to stop. In High School, when she had been at the peak of her mainstream goth phase, Julia decided it was worth starting a one-woman campaign to destroy Apple when they failed to provide her with her pre-ordered copy of Vices and Virtues. Quentin had laughed it off at the time, had assumed she was just being a bit dramatic and would never buy an iPhone again. Instead, she convinced her entire family to give up on Apple products, successfully arguing that their culture and image was no longer representative of modern minimalistic artistry, but bordered on being a corporate cult. She then began a campaign to have Apple products removed from their school in their entirety. Her attack had been two fold; Julia simply presented to the faculty that most professional organizations were unlikely to adopt the iOS, and that teaching the future workforce this system was counterproductive to their goals, while aggressively rallying their student body against the company for their unethical factory conditions and tax evasion. The movement lost momentum before Julia could take it to their school district, but as far as Quentin knew, seven years had passed and Montclair High still hadn’t renewed their contract with Apple education. It didn’t matter to Julia that she had received the album a month later, she had already gone full scorched earth. Once she decided she was going to do something, nothing would stop her until she succeeded or was torn apart in the process. Her tenacity was one of the things Quentin admired the most about her. Now that he was on the other side of it, he wasn’t so sure. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Jesus christ Q! Not everything is about you, okay?’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That… shit, that had actually hurt.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin was too listless to go home. How much longer would the loft even be home? They weren’t exactly planning on renewing the lease. James was getting antsy about having his own place with Julia, and it was probably long since time for him to try having his own place, but that was the plan when they were all going to New Haven. Would Julia <em> want </em> to keep the loft? Would he still be welcome there? Did James have any idea what was happening? Did he have any fucking idea what was happening? Seriously, what the <em> actual fuck </em> was happening? Sure, Quentin wasn’t exactly the best with social cues, but there was no way that had been a normal conversation. </p><p> </p><p>Julia meant it when she said he knew. Anyone with eyes could tell the excuse about mistaking someone else for him was bullshit, there was too much intent beforehand, too much context he couldn’t read. Was he finally actually losing it? What if something <em> had </em>happened Wednesday, and Julia was actually upset about something he couldn’t even remember? It didn’t make sense though, he hadn’t noticed any other side effects, beyond the usual nausea, dry mouth, and insomnia, but if he was losing time, maybe there were other issues he hadn’t noticed yet?</p><p> </p><p>Why had he even bothered getting up that day?</p><p> </p><p>Quentin didn’t know when his body found it’s way to the park bench it currently occupied; his physical form had been running on autopilot for several blocks while his brain behaved like it’s usual unhelpful self. So far, the only thing it had done right was not devolve into a full blown panic attack. Maybe he had been sitting here for ten minutes, maybe he had finally succeeded in shutting down his body in its entirety and would stay here for eternity. Tomato, tom<em> a </em>to.</p><p> </p><p>Only realistically, he knew staying her forever wasn’t an option. Eventually, Quentin and Julia would need to talk, eventually he would need to apologize. He would if she did first. Maybe he was being petty, but right now this felt fairly justified. How fortunate that it also made him feel like a raging jackass.</p><p> </p><p>Finally looking up, Quentin was almost surprised to find where his autopilot functions had brought him..He was no stranger to Brooklyn, even before Julia and James started renting the loft he shared with them. When he and Julia were dumb high school kids, running into the city on the weekends and pretending they knew everything, this part of the city had become a fast favorite of theirs. Whether they were running to a local Shakespeare production pretending to be fancier than they ever wanted to be, or visiting an art gallery so Julia could show off her knowledge of modern art while complaining about her mom, they always tried to stop at Fort Greene to grab some hot dogs and catch their breath. It was easy to forget just how busy New York was sometimes, when you could just disappear between the trees, and this park didn’t leave him feeling as anxious as Central Park did, courtesy of too many Law and Order marathons. When he and Julia first came here, he told her that the spire in the center reminded him of Castle Whitespire. She had laughed, and replied <em> ‘only if Whitespire had to make some serious budget cuts’ </em>, which was fair, seeing as they only had one tower here instead of the requisite four. The joke left them both slightly uneasy after they realized the tower was actually the site of a crypt, but Quentin couldn’t help but look back on those days with fondness. He’d just been out of his first round of treatment, and he and Julia were at their best. They had the world ahead of them, they were inseparable, and now?</p><p> </p><p>Now he was a scared kid who couldn’t admit when he was projecting his issues onto his best friend, and she was growing up and doing something with her life.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin pulled his phone out of his pocket. Julia was right, he fucking hated it, and he knew she was hiding something, but he had to trust her, right? He had to call her, and apologize, and- when he unlocked his phone, he was greeted by his missed call screen. He’d already tried calling her nine times, and saw how that went. She needed space too, it seemed. He just needed to work on respecting that. Still, a text couldn’t hurt.</p><p> </p><p>As he opened his texts, Quentin's thoughts flipped again, because making consistent decisions was for other people. Julia was the one rushing headfirst into something new, wasn’t he obligated to have a few questions? Just because he’d never tried to stop her before, or because things usually worked out for her wasn’t any reason to assume things would be the same this time. Yeah, he needed to apologize, but he also needed her to understand he was trying to help, he needed to go home and find her, he needed to stand in the middle of this fucking park and scream he- </p><p> </p><p>He really needed to get out of his fucking head.</p><p> </p><p>Glancing back at his phone, he looked at the second most recent contact. Unknown, last contacted two days ago. Eliot. Cool, composed, sophisticated Eliot, who somehow gave his number to Quentin, which was something <em>nobody</em> with options did, even though he clearly had options. Numbly, Quentin thumbed through their last few messages. This was arguably the dumbest thing he’d ever done, but fuck it, making good decisions was also for other people.With any luck, he wouldn’t have moved on to someone more interesting by now. Quentin wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, but he stupidly wanted to hold onto hope. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: Tuesday - 9:30 PM - Srry, u did wht?? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: Tuesday - 9:36 PM - Don't make me type it again, you read that right. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I’d be happy to reenact it for you ;) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Unknown: Tuesday - 9:39 PM - Your turn; craziest spring break story. Go. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: Tuesday - 9:42 PM - JC I feel lme </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Q: Tuesday - 9:46 PM - Wrst I did ws accdently strt a blackjck ring n my schl </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: Tuesday - 9:48 PM - Blackjack ring, really? You’ve been holding out on me </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: Tuesday - 9:51 PM -Hey, hv to mntain sme mystry </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: Wednesday - 11:48 AM - Any hangover remedies you care to share? My usual isn’t working </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: Wednesday - 12:11 PM - drink less? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: Wednesday - 12:20 PM - I made a horrible mistake asking you to help </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That definitely wasn’t wrong. One of the advantages of being a lightweight was that he hadn’t been able to get drunk enough to deal with hangovers yet, so, silver linings and all. His fingers flew over the touchscreen keyboard, and he made himself hit send before his instincts told him to delete the message. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: 4:25 PM - go out wth m tnight </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Now the fun part began. Waiting.</p><p> </p><p>God, he was an idiot. What was he even doing?  He needed to make up with Julia, not try and bat so desperately out of his league. The former would be easier if Julia would admit he kind of had a point being worried, but that would mean admitting to not always having everything under control, and god forbid that ever happen- yeah, no, this was not a productive mindset, waiting until they were both cool was definitely the better option. Was there a better option? Eliot probably had tons of better options, but Quentin was still sitting here, on a bench in a park that he used to pretend was a fictional land from a children’s book, thinking that someone that cool would actually text back someone as twitchy and awkward as him. Jesus <em> fuck </em>he was being an idiot, and he was going to spend the whole night sitting here, like a jackass, because he was too much of a wimp to go back to the loft, and was too hopeless to realize that he was never going to hear back from- holy shit his phone just buzzed.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin absolutely, did not, almost drop his phone. Twice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: 4:31 PM -Hello to you too. Have anywhere in mind? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck”, Quentin whispered to himself. He hadn’t exactly thought he would get past phase one, let alone get a reply so soon. But, this was good, right? This was what people not so caught up in their own shit did, they went out, found distractions, got fucked up. He typed a quick reply, hesitating for just a moment before hitting send. A part of him still thought he was being messed with, so it was surprising to see those three dots indicating a response come up so soon.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: 4:33 PM - not rlly </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Q: 4:34 PM -somplace i can forgt my shit </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: 4:36 PM - I know just the place. I’ll send you the address- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Unknown: 4:37 PM - Will you be alright till 9? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And that was...surprising. Still, compared to the rest of the afternoon, this was a nice surprise. Would he be alright till nine? Probably not, but he could at least try to fake it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: 4:40 PM -I will b, thnks </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It almost sounded doable.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Surviving the next few hours was easier than expected, all because Quentin had, predictably, found a library to hide away in. The four hours between then and now passed with relative ease, and Quentin wrapped in the familiarity of empty aisles and the smell of old pages and the way the light made the dust in the air almost look like glitter. He wore the comfort of the books around him like a security blanket. It was exactly the type of familiarity he was hoping to avoid for the rest of the night.</p><p> </p><p>That desire to avoid the same monotony he faced every day had brought Quentin onto a train, and out again at a subway station further inland, to a part of the city filled more with warehouses and old factory buildings than scenic parks and student centers. Yes, this was definitely a perfectly normal night. Just walking out of a subway station in an unfamiliar part of town, with a virtual stranger, absolutely certain he wasn’t going to die tonight. Probably. Like normal people do.</p><p> </p><p>And there he was, and Quentin almost wondered why he was ever worried in the first place. Eliot was draped, really, draped was the only accurate description, across a city bench. His legs stretched out to span the length of the entire seat, the long line of his torso obscuring the face of some poor real estate agent who only wanted to advertise condos in the area, and now had to contend with this? No one was paying any attention to her advertisement, and if the gleam in Eliot’s eye when he saw Quentin approaching was to be believed, he abso-fucking-lutely knew it. He was dressed every bit as well as he had been when Quentin last saw him; a pale, lightly patterned button up and dark grey vest, paired with a dark red tie. Even as someone who objectively knew nothing about clothes, he could tell it looked good. Quentin looked down as his own ensemble, a (very comfortable, thank you) slightly threadbare grey henley and jeans that probably should have been washed yesterday, and tried to bite back his nerves. Hopefully, this was just how Eliot dressed every day, and he didn’t have any expectations or anything. After eons, or just a few seconds, Eliot seemed to notice him stepping out from the confines of the station and into the dim of streetlights. They were too far, and perhaps too ill acquainted for Quentin to call out, but he could definitely wave, right? He did, hoping it wasn’t too awkward. If it was, Eliot made no notice, but did smile at him in acknowledgement. It shouldn’t have affected him so much, but, it did.</p><p> </p><p>“Well well, fancy seeing you here.” Eliot spoke first, leading the conversation with the same sort of easy Quentin imagined he led his entire life with. He might have hated him, if he didn’t want Eliot to like him so much. Why he cared was still beyond him, but he’d always had a thing for either assholes or people who were completely out of his league, so at least he was being painfully on-brand.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you get off on posing like a fucking baroque statue?” He aimed for playfulness, but was afraid the words came out too venomous. At least, he was, until Eliot laughed. “You really should take a guy out to dinner before asking what he gets off on, but I’ll give you a pass this time”</p><p> </p><p>“Right, right, I’m so sorry to have offended your <em> delicate </em> sensibilities, do we need to check in with your chaperone before heading off?” It suddenly all made sense again. Quentin laughed, reeling a bit at the rush of emotions hitting him. Last week, he had thought, was probably so enjoyable as a result of combining nerves and alcohol in perfect tandem, but maybe this was just the effect Eliot had on people. Or maybe it was just him. He really hoped it wasn’t just him. Eliot grinned wickedly, and bit back a half laugh himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you’re kind of a bitch, daddy like.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ugh, didn’t you just say you<em> weren’t </em>going to tell me what gets you off?”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot, finally standing, casually draped an arm over Quentin’s shoulders while Quentin rolled his eyes. Despite his dress, casual did seem like the best word to describe Eliot; he had a casual ease about him, a fondness for casual touch that was becoming increasingly more apparent, and a way of making you feel like a casual friend he had known for years, instead of a new entity lost in his gravitational pull. He utilized the pull of his orbit to lead Quentin off, as easily as he led the conversation towards such mundane topics as how their weeks were and whether or not James Patterson had actually sold his soul for the ability to churn out a mediocre novel that somehow ended up on the bestseller list every other month (Eliot claimed to not care, claiming he didn’t read, but Quentin was pretty sure he had him convinced).</p><p> </p><p>A few more turns past unfamiliar streets and bodegas, which Eliot navigated with a natural sort of ease, and Quentin suspected he could see their destination. Well, more accurately, he could hear it. The low steady thrum of bass was unmistakable. It brought Quentin back to memories of being 18, of being in Senior year and knowing everything there was to know. Of he and Julia coming into the city on a Saturday night with some terrible fake IDs, ready to get shit faced on rum and coke and crash on her sister’s couch in the city after they were done taking on this city. It took them five clubs to find one seedy enough to ignore how sloppy their laminated sheets of plastic were. The club was gross, and the ceiling might have had mold on it, but they did have free drinks for ladies until 3 A.M, so that was a bonus. That night had ended far less spectacularly than they had dreamed, with Quentin freaking out halfway through the night because it was too loud, too crowded, and Julia getting completely wasted after two hours, and Quentin calling James on Julia’s phone to come pick them up, while he held her hair back and she threw up next to a dumpster that smelled like old tacos. God, it was a shitty night, and somehow, one of his favorite memories.</p><p> </p><p>That’s not why he was here though.</p><p> </p><p>Typically, this would be the part of the evening where Quentin flaked out. Where the all too familiar chorus of ‘<em> this really isn’t my kind of scene’ </em> , or <em> ‘shit, there’s way too many people here, can we find somewhere more quiet? Fuck, I didn’t mean it like that!’ </em> or ‘ <em> can I please go back to my books now? </em> ’ would come out. Or, where worse yet, he would attempt to socialize by talking about his special brand of pretentious literary analysis, or doing <em> card tricks </em>. Tonight wasn’t about that though. Tonight was about reinvention. Tonight, he was going to pretend to be someone who didn’t overthink everything that came his way, who didn’t feel his bullshit so hard that everyone in a twenty foot parameter had a front row seat to the show, who could actually hold a conversation with someone significantly cooler than him. Or maybe he would just get really fucked up. Both options were extremely appealing. </p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, Quentin had very few concerns about his lack of social graces at the moment. He had many concerns however, about the apparent lack of signage or advertising suggesting that this club was even slightly official. Or legal. That hadn’t stopped a line of people from forming at the warehouse doors, wrapping around the building and down the block. He may have been more relaxed than he had been all afternoon, but his anxieties were starting to creep back in, like clockwork. They were fast approaching the end of the line and Eliot was showing no signs of stopping. That was fine, Eliot seemed like the kind of guy who always walked with purpose. But then they reached the last group in the crowd, three attractive blondes in practically painted-on black dresses, and brushed by them. Then a group of friends who seemed to have been pre-gaming pretty hard, singing off-key pop songs. Then a guy in a sequin suit jacket who kept looking back at the group of blondes. Eliot ignored them all, he didn’t even turn his head at the next guy in the crowd, boring a girl with vibrant pink hair with some of the worst sleight of hand Quentin had ever seen. <em> No, that is obviously not her card, how did you mess that up that badly? </em> On second thought yeah that guy really wasn’t worth the attention, Eliot was right to ignore that one. The entire mass of people on the other hand...</p><p> </p><p> “Um, Eliot? The line’s back there-” Quentin gestured at the row of people behind them, now stretching about thirty back and counting. Eliot, in a fashion that Quentin immediately knew he should have seen coming, scoffed. “And you’re with me now, I don’t do anything as gauche as lines.”</p><p> </p><p>“O-kay, but there’s still a line?”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, and I also know the host of this party. Well, I know his dealer but, in these circles that’s basically the same thing.” Somehow he spoke of knowing the dealer for the host of an illegal nightclub as flippantly as Quentin might speak of whether or not Tolkien's works should be read allegorically. Wait, that was a bad example, he actually had pretty strong opinions on that one. It was really more like how Quentin would discuss who was playing in the Super Bowl. He wasn’t even sure when the game actually happened. He also wasn’t sure if he should be more concerned about his acquaintances acquaintances.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, classmate of mine? Kind of annoying guy but he makes the best edibles. Here we are.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin’s <em> ‘what kind of school do you even go to? </em>’ died on his tongue when they reached the bouncer. He was even taller than Eliot, maybe almost seven feet? And looked like he ate mountain lions for breakfast. The tattoo on his biceps said he was a Marine, and the scar on his cheek said that any nonsense anyone in this crowd could provide would be a minor annoyance at best. He stared at the two of them like they were insects, and Quentin felt the instinct to recede into himself stronger than he had at any other point that day. He looked to Eliot, ready to suggest they move to the back of the line, but his companion hadn’t budged. He stood tall, smiling pleasantly, appearing oddly regal. It was impressive, and somehow comforting, even though he still feared the two of them were about to be torn in half. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello, I’m Eliot Waugh. My friend isn’t on the list, but I can vouch for him.”</p><p> </p><p>The bouncer checked the clipboard that had been tucked under his arm. The one Quentin hadn’t noticed in favor of noticing how this guy could probably bench press a mid-sized sedan. He looked the two of them up and down, checked his list, and nodded briefly. His eyes then settled on Quentin uncomfortably, before he turned back to Eliot. “He’s not up to dress code.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, but he’s cute.” Quentin half squawked as Eliot threw an arm over his shoulder. He was about to protest, say that he was perfectly capable of defending himself, or agree that he could change, even if it would take him an hour to get to the loft and back, and he didn’t want to go to the loft, but still. He didn’t need Eliot to-</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not that cute.”</p><p> </p><p>Okay, maybe he did need Eliot to vouch for him. Same said Eliot hardly reacted to the bouncer, beyond fixing him with a steely gaze, and <em> fuck </em>if Quentin was this affected by it from a sideways glance he’d hate to feel the full force of it. Or maybe he wouldn’t, given the right context. “Look, he’s with me, and I’m here courtesy of Hoberman, I think you can let a little think like denim slide.” The bouncer squared his shoulders, but deflated at the name ‘Hoberman’. It reminded him of Julia dropping her mom’s name to get into alumni receptions while they were still at Columbia, only this was slightly more ethically dubious. After another moment of watching them, he stepped to the side, conceding. “Fine, you’re in”</p><p> </p><p>“Excellent! Also, if you would take this.” Before Quentin could react, Eliot was pulling his messenger bag off his person, because apparently just <em> asking </em> him to take it off would have been too much work.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah-hey! I’ve got- come on Eliot!” Eliot only grinned, devilishly handsome, bag in hand and without a care. Before he could form a cohesive sentence, said bag was in the hands of the bouncer, who looked way too done with Eliot’s shit, but tucked the bag into a side room nonetheless. Quentin brushed his hair back into place, and hoped Eliot could feel the glare he was currently on the receiving end of. It couldn’t have been that impressive a glare though, as Eliot’s response was to chuckle, and pat his cheek in a manner that was somehow both patronizing and endearing.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry, they’ll keep your purse safe. Come along now, onward!”</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to argue that his messenger back isn’t a purse. He wanted to say that there are library books in there that he would prefer to keep an eye on. He wanted to ask how they’re supposed to get his bag back from all the others without some sort of number.</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to follow Eliot through those doors even more.</p><p> </p><p>Perspectives could change a lot in five steps. Five steps could be the difference between the comforts of a hand drawn map, scribbled in crayons under a kitchen table and the reality of watching your parents pretend not to hate each other for one more day. Five steps could be the difference between reconciliation with a friend and losing her in a crowd, confused and unsure of where you stand, and ready to make bad choices with a hot stranger. Here and now, five steps was the difference between the poorly gilded reality New York held in store for its citizens, and a palace of neon and revelry.  It was hard to think of being someone else tonight, of being someone else in general, when crossing the threshold of the warehouse was as close to entering another world as Quentin had ever come. </p><p> </p><p>It certainly wasn’t a world he would have created of his own accord, all loud and bright and dark and too much and not enough all at once, but maybe that would only add to the appeal, once he stopped feeling like such an outsider. Equal parts Blacklight Party and Gatsby, with aerialists painted in neon and glitter spinning overhead and women in feathered dresses circling the floor below with shots, it shouldn’t have worked but somehow it <em> did </em>. Curtains were draped at all angles, obscuring the harshest of the industrial elements of the building and creating private alcoves simultaneously. Some black, some violent pink and yellow against the dance floor, some shifting one way or the other based on where shadows were cast across them. The interior of the warehouse was deceptively large, and if the music had been audible from down the block, it was almost deafening in here. He and Eliot were perched on a walkway that, from the exterior, was at ground level, but from here, was part of a perimeter around the square where foremen would have once watched workers on the receded level labor away. Tonight, that perimeter was instead dotted with velvet armchairs and chaises, and more cocktail tables than he cared to count, while that receded level served as a haze covered dance floor. He turned to Eliot, who’s own look had transformed with the change in light; the grey of his vest appeared black now, his tie almost glowed fuchsia, and his eyes definitely glowed rapturously. He was a man entirely in his element, and Quentin felt every painful inch the spectator he was, still holding his hands up awkwardly without the strap of his bag to hide behind. He didn’t even realize he was starting until Eliot turned his attention towards him. It was hard to hear him over the DJ beneath their feet, but Quentin could just make him out.</p><p> </p><p>“Need a minute?” Fuck, did he look as out of place as he felt? Probably, since apparently <em> normal jeans </em> were a crime here or something.  He swallowed, and nodded, then decided that maybe talking out loud wasn’t a bad idea.</p><p> </p><p>“I-uh...yeah”</p><p> </p><p>Smooth. Very smooth. He was a real laureate over here, a certified adult who went outside and talked to people. Absolutely. Eliot chuckled, and ran a hand through his perfect fucking hair. Quentin absentmindedly wondered if they were as soft as they looked, or if he needed to use an absurd amount of gel to keep them in order. The move was distracting enough that he almost completely missed Eliot’s reply.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s fine, take your time. I’ll be right back.”</p><p> </p><p>And he was- he was actually walking away. Apparently Quentin’s awkward nerd energy had hit critical mass, and Eliot could feel it, and needed to get away, and this definitely took the record for his shortest date ever-wait was this a date? <em> ‘Take me out I want to get fucked up’ </em> didn’t really translate to date, so probably not, so I guess it didn’t break that record, but Jesus this had to have broken <em> some </em>record, and-oh, nevermind, Eliot was just heading to the upper level bar. That was much more reasonable, he guessed.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin sighed, and hunched forward a bit. With the loss of his physical and human shields, (his bag and Eliot, respectively), at least he still had his hair to hide behind. Only, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Falling back into patterns of behavior, into familiar comforts and avoiding anything uncomfortable or different. He was really good at saying he wanted to change things, fix the little broken parts of himself that he didn’t like, but was absolute shit at actually doing anything about them. For fucks sake, he got in a fight with his best friend, texted a guy he had met exactly once asking to go on a mystery outing then <em> immediately went to a library afterwards, </em>how much more of a desperate attempt at reclaiming a pattern could that have been? He sighed, and tried to embrace the atmosphere around him. There was no denying that it was exciting, and he was looking forward to tonight. He was just also dreadfully afraid of fucking it all up.</p><p> </p><p>“You should be having fun”</p><p> </p><p>The voice came up on him out of nowhere. Easy enough to do in a place like this, when you couldn’t hear anyone walking towards you. The source of said voice probably wasn’t talking to him, but he startled nonetheless, turning towards the speaker. Surprisingly, he did seem to be talking to Quentin, and he was certainly...a character. Wide eyed and mirthful, with an air of confidence that surpassed even Eliot, but with a commanding edge that suggested not to fuck with him. It was hard to say what was more noteworthy, his presence of command, or his weird top hat, which happened to be covered in feathers. What he wanted with Quentin was an absolute mystery. Wait, shit, he probably needed to respond?</p><p> </p><p>“I-uh, I only just got here?”</p><p> </p><p>Top Hat looked him up and down, and seemed generally unimpressed. “So? You’re still moping like a wet dishrag, and it’s killing my vibe. Either start having fun or get out.” Wait, fuck was this guy the host? Did illegal nightclubs have hosts, or just owners? Was this the guy Hoberman dealt for? Quentin was extremely composed, and responded like any normal person would when faced with an encounter with someone who was unnecessarily confrontational; meaning, he stammered, and folded like a house of cards.<br/><br/></p><p>“Um, my-my friend is getting drinks right now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm, It’s a start. You’ll need more though, take this” The man pulled something out from his sleeve, seemingly out of nowhere. His showmanship was certainly a lot smoother than Quentin’s own sleight of hand. He almost asked the possible host about his technique, when he recognized what he was holding out, and had to bite back laughter at the absurdity of the situation. He was literally living out an early DARE PSA, complete with a shady, over-the-top character offering him a joint. Was this real life? Was this actually his life right now? But more importantly-</p><p> </p><p>“Is there a catch?”</p><p> </p><p>“No catch, you’re just thinking too loud and it’s bringing me down. Well? Tick tock.” The man in the feathered hat’s eyes flicked back between Quentin and the door, a nonverbal ‘<em> get over your shit or get out </em>’, and well-</p><p> </p><p>Quentin knew that he was probably having a bad reaction to his medication, if his lost time was anything to go by. He knew he wasn’t in a great headspace, and he knew absolutely nothing about this guy, other than that he had terrible taste in accessories (or great taste, he guessed) and if he wasn’t in charge, he was good at acting like it. He also knew the whole reason he had wanted to go out in the first place was to get fucked up, and really, how much worse could his head get? It was just pot, and it wasn’t like he’d never gotten high before. This would be fine, just part of the experience. Quentin shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but probably landing closer to awkward submission, and accepted the roll with an equally awkward “um, thanks?”.</p><p> </p><p>He had barely had time to enjoy the inhalation, leaning back and letting the smoke linger, when the feather clad owner of said joint plucked it back unceremoniously. “Yes, that’s much better, carry on now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait what?” But without so much as an acknowledgement, he-</p><p> </p><p>He was already walking away. This was becoming a really annoying pattern. Quentin turned about, perhaps a reflex, perhaps a hope to see that someone else had found the encounter as weird as he had. Naturally, in typical New York fashion, no one had paid them any mind, but he did spot Eliot finally heading back, a mojito in each hand. He half raised one in celebration, or maybe it was more of a wave.</p><p> </p><p>“Q! Getting started without me?” Eliot was only a few feet away, but was yelling over the crowd to be heard. Had the guy in the top hat been yelling? Quentin had heard him with no difficulty, but suddenly he wasn’t sure. He was sure however, that there was still smoke around his face, and that he still had his hand held up like a jackass.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! No just, um, this guy just-never mind he already disappeared, but um, this guy in a top hat just gave me this? Erm, want some?” He accepted the drink from Eliot, a touch surprised that he had brought drinks for both of them, but grateful nonetheless, and turned towards the direction the possible benefactor of this party had gone in. “I think he’s right over the-”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot, as gracefully as he seemed to do everything, cut him off and placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him mid turn. “Yes, but I prefer to keep to my own supply, which I didn’t think to bring. So, and it truly pains me to say this, no, not this time.”</p><p> </p><p>What was the proper etiquette regarding drug use when going to an illegal nightclub with a really hot guy? Was it alright for one party member to get high without the other, or was that the sort of thing that should have been discussed beforehand? Quentin swallowed. He was fairly certain he had just made the whole night a lot more awkward. One of these days he would learn to handle confrontation, but today was not that day. Apparently Top Hat was onto something when he said Quentin thought too loudly, since Eliot just smiled at him, that easy smile that made all but the worst voices a little softer. </p><p> </p><p>“Relax little Q, isn’t that what we’re here for? If I just wanted a good party, I could have stayed on campus, but this is so much more interesting. Relax, forget your shit, as you so eloquently put it, enjoy!”</p><p> </p><p>They clinked their plastic cups as best they could, and Quentin couldn’t help but smile. He couldn’t help but pretend for a moment that by ‘this’, Eliot had maybe meant ‘him’.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>By the fifth song, the axis of the Earth fell slightly out of line. By the ninth, the bodies around him began to melt into one cosmic blur. By the twelfth, Quentin was more than ready to be swallowed by it.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The lights kept fracturing, over and over and over. One by one, the colors would break apart, and bleed over what had come before, occasionally interrupted by smoke or streams of light. The world above him had become a hologram of a kaleidoscope, moving perfectly out of time with the bass beneath him. It was, without a doubt, the most fascinating ceiling Quentin had ever seen. </p><p> </p><p>His body was at rest, leaning back against a railing. His arms were outstretched across the top guard rail. Or maybe they weren’t. When he had last checked, they were in the process of dissolving, becoming one with the could of light and smoke above. Another body moved into his space, brighter than the cloud. Quentin assumed he smiled, it was hard to tell. He couldn’t feel his face anymore.</p><p> </p><p>“Why does your cologne taste like cinnamon?” Quentin lolled his head to the side, and was pleasantly surprised to see that his arms were still a part of his body. At least, what parts of them he could see where, for a good portion of his field of vision was filled by Eliot. He drifted, and shimmered, and settled into the space beside him. Eliot smiled, and inhaled around his cigarette. As he exhaled, the smoke came out as stars.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you-” Eliot slurred, “standing up here, instead of dancing with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin turned his head about, questioning where ‘here’ was. Right, the loft space. When had he climbed the stairs? Where were the stairs? He let it go, and turned to look Eliot in the eyes, which were currently like, stupid anime big.</p><p> </p><p>“Last I checked, you were standing here too.” His companion, the rightful ruler of this fair court, not that he would admit it aloud, looked about, equally confused by their current predicament. A grin overtook Eliot’s chiseled features, devlish and boyish all at once, and wholly unfair.</p><p> </p><p>“So it would seem. We should correct that.” Quentin’s mind would have stalled, where the only possible answer to that not so blatantly obvious.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There were hands everywhere; stroking down his forearms, running through his hair, brushing against his back, laying pressure down upon the very air around him. There were other sensations too. Warmth upon his cheeks, a spider-like crawling down his leg, teeth grazing across his jaw, lightning within his ribs, the very movements of the Earth.</p><p> </p><p>It was nowhere near enough, and it was all more than he could bear.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The dance floor fell silent.</p><p> </p><p>The colors all snapped to gray, the room suddenly devoid of all dancers. The aerialists, the blacklights, the overwhelming pounding of the music and the waves of bodies moving in time with it, all vanished within a blink. In the space filled by a second, all had ceased to exist. Wasn’t that just how life was? One second, cacophonous, the next, gone? Had his drink disappeared too? Wait, when had he gone to get a drink?</p><p> </p><p>With his next blink, the party came crashing back into reality. The press of bodies was overwhelming, but every now and again he could make out a face or two in the crowd; his middle school bully, John, his father, his expression unreadable, Julia, shouting at him over the crowd, barely audible but her words lost nonetheless, Eliot, eyes darker now, lined with kohl, and<em> was that Honeyclaw the Bear </em> ? The crowd drew closer, Quentin felt his entire body recoil into itself. Had the music been this loud before? Could he even be considered music anymore, or was it just noise? The pitch was too high, the tone too constant, and good god, the <em> ringing </em>. Quentin dropped his re-materialized cup, and moved to curl into a ball, not caring that he was standing in the center of the room.</p><p> </p><p>Where had his body gone? He couldn’t- fuck, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t breathe and where was his body and did he even exist anymore and <em>Je</em> <em> sus fucking Christ </em> why couldn’t he <em> move </em>?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Maybe not existing wasn’t so bad. Maybe he had never existed at all.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It started with the voices. First, they simply murmured at the edges of his awareness. If he wasn’t real, could he have an awareness? Nonexistence was strange, his brain helpfully supplied. Still, the voices persisted.</p><p> </p><p>Their calls started softly. Flitting in and out of the music, he could hear the period whisper of ‘<em> Quentin </em> ’. Somehow from non-existence, he managed to wonder, <em> ‘who? </em> ’. The voices would laugh, and reply ‘ <em> you, you are. Come, play with us </em>’. Quentin, he was Quentin, was he? Tried to reply that he couldn’t follow them, for he wasn’t real, but he couldn’t, as he didn’t have a mouth. And yet, his perspective moved, the ocean of masses growing thinner and thinner until all he saw was a grey plane overlayed with pink and yellow lights. He couldn’t lean against the plane, but he was somehow aware that it’s stony surface was cool and firm, and he could imagine himself melting into it. The voices however, had plans beyond letting him dissapear further.</p><p> </p><p>‘<em> Quentin, come play, we’re lo-o-onely </em>’ they sang. There were so many of them, speaking as one, but just slightly out of synch. He leaned his head back against the wall; did he have a head again? No, that wasn’t possible, and closed his eyes. They couldn’t be so lonely that they needed an imaginary friend, especially not in such a crowded space. Then the voices began splitting, one by one, piece by piece.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Typical, he’s so caught up in his own head-’  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘-Never really cared about anyone else, did he-’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘-Better off away from everyone, hiding in the corner-’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘-Doesn’t he know no one really wants him around-’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘-Jesus Christ Q, not everything is about you!-’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His eyes snapped open, and the room fucking <em> spun </em>. Where was Julia? Where was he? Why was he sweating so much? Quentin pressed a hand to his forehead, only, that was wrong, Quentin didn’t have hands. Quentin didn’t exist.</p><p> </p><p>-----------------------------------</p><p> </p><p>The space before him was filled by a woman who matched the crowd like red wine on a white shirt. The crowd on the dance floor was filled with sequins, sleek and shiny minidresses, and the occasional tacky neon fishnet glove. The woman before him was cloaked entirely in black, every inch of her skin concealed in ink and shadow. The fullness of her skirt should have made moving impossible in this arena, but the fabric looked as though it would billow like water around her instead. Even though her face was shrouded by the shadows of her hood, he could feel her staring straight through him. The realization left him cold; If he didn’t exist, if Quentin Coldwater had never been, then <em> how could she see him </em>?</p><p> </p><p>He could feel her smile, slow and dreadful, as she raised her hands to her hood.</p><p> </p><p>“Quentin, so good of you to make <em> time </em>for us.” She spoke with a clipped, firm British accent, and pulled the swath of fabric back to expose her face, revealing-</p><p> </p><p>A clock. Her face was <em> a clock </em> . A mother fucking, honest to god, <em> clock </em>.</p><p> </p><p>He stood, legs tumbling from beneath him like a baby deer. He had legs again? Oh god, he was real, he was <em> real </em> , and everyone could see him. Why couldn’t they see her? The rest of the room kept dancing, flitting back and forth to the bars, heading up to the marginally more private balcony space, and none of them noticed the woman with the clock for a face. Quentin slid back down, his strength having vanished. God, what a pathetic picture he painted. Back to the wall, too far gone to move, staring at a monster no one else noticed. Jesus christ, he was fucking <em> shaking </em> . He-he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe he couldn’t- what were those breathing exercises again? <em> In, 1,2, 7, 8, </em> no that was all wrong, everything was all wrong and-</p><p> </p><p>“H-Help-” Quentin’s voice broke in his throat, as he called to no one in particular. No one could hear him, no one was looking, was he wrong about existing? Was he as invisible as the clock woman? She hadn’t moved from her position, her eerie vigil over this small section of concrete wall. No one was listening, but Quentin couldn’t stop himself. He called again. “I-Help? Can anyone hear me? H-help?”</p><p> </p><p>The clock woman cocked her head to the side, but remained otherwise motionless. He was so fixated upon her, he almost missed the movement to his side. An arm draped across his back, a head on his shoulder. The body was warm, and smelled nice, and was in immediate danger, why didn’t he run? The body-<em> Eliot </em>, laughed beside him, unaware of the monster watching.</p><p> </p><p>“My my Q, I leave you for...two minutes, and you tire out on me already? If you needed a break, you could always ask. Daddy’s a good listener.” Eliot’s voice was bright and joyful, filled with laughter, and it was all <em> wrong </em> , they were going to die here, and the hands of a mysterious woman and he was <em> laughing </em>. Eliot lolled his head to the side, looking Quentin in the eye. There was possibly a dusting of glitter under his eyes that hadn’t been there before. There was a definite possibility that the smile he was donning disappeared within three seconds of looking at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Q? Quentin, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”</p><p> </p><p>At some point, Quentin had turned his face away from the woman, but she still lingered in the corner of his eye; Ever present, ever looming. She was right there, how could he not see her? Why wasn’t he running? Eliot’s face shifted, and Quentin realized he had been speaking aloud.</p><p> </p><p>“Who’s there? The girl in the leopard shorts? They’re tacky, sure, but not worth running from-oh, wait, <em> shit </em>.” Eliot pulled back, and did something...very strange with his hands. When he turned back to Quentin, his eyes were somehow more focused, yet more tired. The clock woman still had yet to move.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, did someone slip you something? Shit, no, you probably can’t answer that right now. Um, okay,  I’m here, it’s going to be fine. We just have to ride it out, but you’re going to be fine, I promise. Just, fuck, just breath with me, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin wanted to believe him, he did. How could he not believe Eliot when he sounded so earnest, so concerned? When- when his face started turning into a goddamn clock mid sentence, the inky black of the clock woman bleeding out of the clock face, pouring over Eliot and consuming him.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin screamed. He ran.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Here it was dark. Here, it was quiet. All he needed to do was not open his eyes, and not move his palms from his ears.</p><p> </p><p>Here it was dark. Here, it was quiet.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“-under the table, really? Alright, thanks.” Quentin shifted within his personal void. The voice clearly came from overhead, though it was muffled. He felt a touch, shockingly gentle, on his shoulder, heard the voice again, only further muffled. The hand disappeared, and the voice came back into focus. Eliot? No, it couldn’t be Eliot, he had been taken away. </p><p> </p><p>“-please, I’ll be right back.” The voice that was <em> definitely not Eliot </em>trailed off, and Quentin was vaguely aware of footsteps walking away, though he could feel them more than hear. He didn’t know how long he had spent down here, hiding behind his arms. Minutes? Hours? Days? Seconds? The bass was starting to pulse again, and Quentin could almost make out a melody. If there were words to it, they were nonsense, but it felt steady. A metronome of sorts, providing context within space. It would be so easy to just slip back into it, go back to not existing. That had been nice, why couldn’t he go back? Suddenly, the touch from before returned to his shoulder, firmer this time.</p><p> </p><p>“Q, are you with me?” His eyes snapped open, and he turned to the source. Eliot had somehow recovered his face, and was crouching next to him. Quentin wanted to speak, wanted to ask him ‘<em> how did you defeat the witch? </em> ’, and ‘ <em> could you see without your eyes? </em> ’, or ‘ <em> why do you look so sad? </em>’, but the words were all locked in his throat. That was alright, he tended to talk too much anyways. Eliot moved his hand from Quentin’s shoulder, but before he could protest the loss of contact, that hand stopped on Quentin’s cheek, thumb stroking under his eye. Eliot’s thumb felt wet. Wait, that was wrong, had he been crying? He stared at Eliot, hoping he had any idea what Quentin was trying to ask.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright, I found- do you remember the guy from when we first came in here? Well- ok I’m not sure what he gave you, but whatever you smoked, it was laced. You’re essentially  on a<em> really </em> bad acid trip right now. But, you’re going to be alright. I’ve got your bag, let's just get you out of here. Can you move?”. Somehow, Quentin was aware of himself nodding, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he could. Eliot nodded back, and gently pulled him away from the darkest port of his corner. “Careful, watch your head now,’ he tutted as he pulled Quentin to his feet. Watch his head for what? The table? When had he gone under a table? He stumbled a few times, the world was still off-axis, but El was still steady beside him. El, that was a good nickname for him, he thought.</p><p> </p><p>“You think so? I’m certainly not opposed, though, I fear it may be too early in this affair for pet names.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh, he’d said that aloud. That was fun. They stayed close to the edges of the room, avoiding the worst of the crowd. Before Quentin knew it, they were outside, and <em> fuck </em> , it was early July already but compared to the club behind them it was fucking <em> freezing </em> out here. It was cold, and he couldn’t stop shaking, and the voices were gone but they were right, he was going to die alone, and <em> fuck, </em> he was an idiot for thinking he could even <em> pretend </em> to get away from himself. Apparently, according to the universe, it actually was too much to ask to be someone he didn’t hate, even for one fucking night.</p><p> </p><p>“Woah, okay, okay, stay with me Q. We’re going to unpack that later, but right now, I need you to breath.” Eliot’s grip on his shoulder was firm, but supportive. More like a herding dog and less like an oppressive manager. The shepherd metaphor held up as Quentin found himself on a bench, with no recollection of crossing the street to reach it. He turned Quentin to face him. Placing a hand on his cheek. The physical contact as a lifeline, he just needed to decide to hold on. “Good, you’re doing so good. Now, breath with me, you’re going to be just fine.” Eliot’s voice left no room for negotiation. He wasn’t asking Quentin to calm down, wasn’t suggesting he focus on a singular, simple task. It was a statement of fact. The exhausted part of his mind practically melted at his stare, whispering <em> ‘please’ </em>at the prospect of giving up control.</p><p> </p><p>And so they sat, just breathing, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like the moths in the streetlight above them weren’t collapsing in and out of being clouds of glitter, and like someone like Eliot helping someone like Quentin get his shit together wasn’t the less unnatural</p><p>act of the evening. Strangely, it helped. Eliot’s hand gently stroked up and down his arm, a grounding touch that spoke volumes. The colors of the sky didn’t stop shifting, his face was still wet, and the feeling that he was one step away from floating into space wasn’t going anywhere, but in a somehow not completely awful way, he was beginning to feel a bit more like himself. </p><p> </p><p>Regaining control over his mental facilities was one thing. Control over his tongue was another. It wasn’t just regaining the feeling of his face or thoughts though, Quentin just didn’t know what to say. Something self deprecating and hopefully humorous? Something serious? Something to completely change the subject? Eventually, he settled on the only words that felt right.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot double blinked. Quentin blinked back. Was he surprised that Quentin was even talking yet, or-? “I’m sorry? Would you like to run that by me again, because I’m pretty sure I’m the idiot who didn’t notice that your pupils have been blown all night.” Oh. Well, sure, that made sense, but that wasn’t <em> his </em> fault. Quentin swallowed.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, it was dark in there, I think. And- and I kind of did ask you to take me out, and got fucked up, which- I mean, we can probably agree is pretty lame, you know-”</p><p> </p><p>“What I know is that you took drugs you didn’t know you were taking, which is usually a recipe for disaster, and what I suspect is that you weren’t in a great headspace for a trip anyways. So, no, it’s not lame.” His voice was slow, punctuated, in control. Quentin would have expected a dozen possible interruptions from Eliot- exasperation, incredulity, even jovial mockery. Somehow, this lighthouse in a storm approach hadn’t come to mind. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think asking to not hate yourself is too much. This was just, probably a terrible approach for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“When...when did I say that?”</p><p> </p><p>“About five minutes ago, which tells me you’re probably not going to remember most of this conversation.” He paused, and looked down. Quentin hoped he wasn’t imagining the sincerity in his expression. He also hoped Eliot hadn’t turned his attention towards any of the many things that could be hiding out of view beneath them. “Listen, I’m...I’m not exactly an expert on healthy coping mechanisms, but I am self aware enough to know when I’ve miscalculated. This really isn’t you, is it?” Hesitation sounded completely wrong on him. It sounded like finding a quiet space in a crowded room; instinctively, you knew it was possible, that there was no reason it shouldn't exist, but fundamentally, it seemed like the sort of thing that should have faded into the atmosphere first. </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I don’t see why that matters-”</p><p> </p><p>“No, it was a rhetorical question, you don’t need to answer. Besides, now probably isn’t a great time for serious conversations. You’re not really in control right now, and I’d rather not push you into saying something you regret.”</p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t you drunk? How is that different?”</p><p> </p><p>“I can get sober pretty fast when needed, though the hangover is going to be a bitch and a half tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” </p><p> </p><p>Quentin had finally stopped shivering, but a different uncomfortable cold came over him. Did Eliot feel it too? He had said that he miscalculated, but maybe Quentin had miscalculated too. Maybe Eliot wasn’t as collected as he initially thought. Maybe Quentin wanted to go out on a limb, and try trusting him. Or, maybe he was completely delusional. He didn’t know if he could count Eliot as a friend yet; definitely an attractive adventuring partner, and someone decent enough to not abandon a companion under a table in a pop up nightclub, but he wanted to. <em> God </em>, he wanted to. The silence was just starting to reach the far side of uncomfortably long, so Quentin decided to do what he did best; break it.</p><p> </p><p>“But like, let’s say I did want to, um, talk about it...would you listen? Because I might have royally screwed things up with my only friend today I don’t know what to do.” He tried to parse out each word, but the sentence came out as more of a rushed exhale. It was pretty typical of him, he figured. An early therapist of his had suggested he had an  ‘all or nothing’ personality bias, might as well extend to his speech too. He could either bottle everything up, or let it all out in one go. Eliot didn’t seem to mind though, and just chucked in response.</p><p> </p><p>‘It can’t have been that bad.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe it was, I don’t even know! It just feels like yesterday, we had our whole lives planned out, but now I don't know what the fuck is happening, and-and I <em> know </em> she’s not giving up her life because of me, she’s never been that kind of person, but I still don’t know why she’s changing everything, and she’s-she’s keeping something from me, and we’ve- we’ve never hidden <em> anything </em>from each other. But, you know, I guess she’s moving on and growing up and I’m the same nerd who reads the same damn books over and over again with no plans to leave the city, and I’m terrified that she’s going to realize how much she’s given up, and that she doesn’t need me around anymore, and she just hasn’t gotten around to saying it yet.”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot looked up again, slightly bemused, but still somehow sincere. Quentin’s breath hitched; tomorrow, he would be able to reflect on the way the light struck Eliot’s face just so, how his eyes softened as he chuckled, on how he tensed slightly right before moving into a more relaxed position. Tomorrow, he would say that the high let him embellish reality too much, see this man in front of him as someone less composed than his facade would suggest, but someone who found perfection in the imperfections of life. That was his future’s problem; right now, he was more than happy to drink it in, to embrace any grand advice this unreal person had to offer. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, let’s say she has.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin’s brain, in typical helpful fashion, stalled. Not exactly the sage wisdom he had mentally prepared for. All he could think to do was awkwardly laugh. “That’s... encouraging”. Eliot rolled his eyes, but only seemed to be teasing him. “Hey, I never said she <em> was </em> , I said <em> what if </em>. Let’s play the worst case scenario. Your girlfriend-”</p><p> </p><p>“Not my girlfriend”</p><p> </p><p>“Apologies. Regardless, let’s pretend your friend is moving on, as you so put it, and doesn’t need you anymore. That’s about her, not you. You don’t owe it to anyone to be who they need. The <em> only </em> thing you owe anyone is authenticity, and you <em> only </em> owe that to yourself. Believe me, I understand the appeal of reinvention, but it’s important that the person you’re trying to be is still you. You’re much better off being yourself, and finding a new village, than you are keeping yourself small to fit within a village that doesn’t care.”</p><p> </p><p>“But, doesn’t that sound really lonely? And...she’s the only village I’ve had for like, a really long time.” </p><p> </p><p>“Mm, perhaps it’s different for you. But in my experience, yes. It is lonely, for a while. But once you find the right people-”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you seriously going to say it gets better?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh god no, it absolutely doesn’t. But it becomes more...manageable. Anyways, this is all hypothetical. Maybe this girl still is your person, and everything is fine, you’re just having a fight. But if it isn’t, I have no doubt that you’ll find a new village.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin had held onto a thread of composure for as long as he could, as well as one could be expected when they weren’t sure whether or not they were still crying, but at that he audibly scoffed.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, you wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what a disaster I am”</p><p> </p><p>Quiet wasn’t the sort of reaction that came to mind when looking at Eliot. At a glance, he seemed the sort of guy to respond to serious topics with a flippant remark and something sarcastic. At a deeper glance, physical reassurance and maybe some carefully chosen words, but not silence. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe not, but, I’d like to think that I would….”</p><p> </p><p>The quiet wasn’t exactly disconcerting. It might have even been calm, if Quentin’s own nerves weren’t so frayed. How long had he been staring at Eliot? How long had Eliot been staring back, and had his eyes always been so open? That last question slipped from Quentin’s mind as smoothly as Eliot’s own veneer slipped back into place. Still warm, but less vulnerable, less real. Less perfect once you’d seen what was underneath.</p><p> </p><p>“.anyways, that’s enough of feelings for one night. Let’s get you home, come on now.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Quentin doesn’t remember walking to the subway station. He doesn’t remember whether or not he could manage the stairs on his own, or if he needed to lean on Eliot on the way down. He doesn’t remember fumbling with the turnstile, or if the platform was crowded.</p><p> </p><p>He does remember the streaking of lights illuminating the inside of the train. He remembers the feel of the rail whirring beneath their seat. He remembers warm fingers, interlaced with his own.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Soft voices stirred Quentin from where he lay. He wasn’t sure where he was, but it was dark, and warm, and smelled familiar, so he was probably fine. “-regardless, I’m sorry I woke you-”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine, I was up anyway. Thanks for bringing him back, I’d...I’d hate to think what could have happened to him out there. He’s got a bad habit of dating assholes, you now?” </p><p> </p><p>Was that James? Wait, was he home? He turned, trying to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. This was pretty lame, the hand didn’t even apply any pressure, but Quentin stayed down nonetheless. He could feel a blanket being pulled up to his neck, and heard Eliot’s voice, just as deep but softer than before. “Shh, you’re alright, just try and rest.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm, I’m not sure this was a date per say, just two people blowing off some steam. But, yes, I do know.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s fair. Anyways, what exactly happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“ I didn’t see everything, but he took something pretty strong without realizing it-” Eliot’s voice faded into the background again. Everything else faded not long after.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There was a reason Quentin and Julia made such an effort to avoid passing out on the couch after late nights of studying or drinking or (more frequently), both. That reason was the glass windows of the high rise across the street, that managed to perfectly reflect the sun into your eyes from every angle at the right hour. That right hour, however, was usually around one in the afternoon, so by the time it blinded you through your eyelids, it was usually time to try and move anyways.</p><p> </p><p>He awoke still feeling...wrong. Not quite himself, but not entirely hollow, just wrong. So much of last night was a blur, but a handwritten note on the coffee table next to a glass of water (and aspirin, thank <em> god </em>for aspirin) did confirm some of what he remembered.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hey Q, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Your friend dragged you back here last night, you were pretty fucked up. Drink this, don’t take drugs from strangers, and don’t go into any windowless vans just because the driver says he has candy. I’m getting you a backpack leash and you’re grounded for a week. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Call me when you’re up, glad you got back safe </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> -James </em> </p><p> </p><p>Well, that was nice. As much as he had wanted to hate James when he started dating Julia, a sick sense of misplaced jealousy, it was really hard to do when he was just so damn likeable. Smiling (or, grimacing, as it was more his speed at the moment), he fished his phone from his pocket; sleeping on it had objectively not been great, but that was future Quentin’s problem. Right now, he just needed to check his battery; 21%, not great, but more than enough for a call.</p><p> </p><p>And, to answer a new message.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: 3:26 AM - Hey, I hope you’re feeling better. I don’t know how long this will be in your system, but if it’s like acid, you’re looking at 12 hours max. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unknown: 3:35 AM - You’re not allowed to be embarrassed about last night.  If you want to talk about any of it, I’m here, and if you want me to pretend it never happened, that works too. Just know, you can’t scare me off. I’m only leaving if you ask me to.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>Cautiously, Quentin began to type. He didn’t have the words for a response, likely wouldn’t for a few more hours. Still, the input mattered. If Eliot was serious, if he wasn't going anywhere, he probably deserved an actual place in his contacts. He reread those words, Eliot’s words, as though they were a physical thing, brittle and new and so easy to shatter. He’d never been particularly adept at handling things with care, but there was always that hope. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time everything wouldn’t break.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Not gonna lie, reading people's acid trip stories on reddit for research on this chapter was probably more fun than it should have been.</p><p>Find me at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theauditty</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Consequences of Human Conditioning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eliot and Quentin argue about a stool. Quentin’s first time is magical.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>You were always certain that it did exist</p><p>Imagination so intrinsic all at stake</p><p>All the things we said when we were younger</p><p>Did it bend or did I break?</p><p>                                            -The Band CAMINO</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The universally ignored truth was simple; life changed, life changed in big ways, but none of that really mattered. The new city, new job, new friends, they were all just a thin veneer over the million habits and tics that defined who you really were. That lesson should have been well ingrained since childhood, from the realization that going back and forth to two homes wouldn’t magically make everything better. Divorce didn’t give his Mom the sudden desire to see anything as more important than her work, or to see his moods as anything more than preteen attention-seeking behavior. It didn’t give his Dad the ability to talk to him, just more time to try and create artificial, hallmark style father-son moments that never went anywhere. Worst of all, the absence of the constant fights and walking on eggshells certainly didn’t fix whatever was broken inside of him. When all was said and done, the best anyone could hope to be was nothing more than their worst habits.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin had only just settled in his favorite armchair in the living room. His day hadn’t been particularly interesting. The morning had been filled by updating his resume and putting out a few feelers, and the afternoon by a quick grocery run and picking up some new prescriptions. After his call with Dr. London yesterday, he wasn’t feeling much better about his memory. Apparently memory loss was not one of the known side effects of his current drug cocktail, so the problem was just his brain being his brain. She wrote him a refill for a lower dose, just to be safe, and advised him to keep a log in case he lost more time, but there really wasn't anything that could be done unless this became a pattern. Now, back at home and done with the chaos of New York’s streets, he had every intention of taking a few moments to play tetris and not let himself feel guilty about the waste of time. Those plans were hindered by a knocking on the door that startled him enough that he dropped the t-block 90 degrees off-axis, so the level was already lost. He peeled himself from the chair, mentally preparing for whatever awkward exchange was coming with whoever was at the door, hoping the James had just forgotten his keys when he left for work that morning, </p><p> </p><p>Still, persistence wasn’t always such a terrible thing. Habits sucked, they became trenches you couldn’t get out of, but those trenches always doubled as a safe place to burrow oneself. His Mom was at least consistent in her lack of concern. His Dad still tried, despite never actually knowing what to say, and Julia still came home Tuesday night with Thai food and a desire to not let things fester any more than they had.</p><p> </p><p> Seeing Julia in the doorway of their loft shouldn’t have been surprising. This place was, after all, way more hers’ and James’ than it was his. Still, she lingered in the doorway, her smile hesitant and almost apologetic? Quentin stood in the doorway, somewhat dumbfounded. She had texted the JJQ group chat last night to let them know she would be living on campus during weekdays. Still, her appearance was welcome, if not unexpected, and Quentin had read enough historical analysis to know something about gift horses and mouths. Fortunately, she took his  floundering as an opportunity to speak first.</p><p> </p><p>“So, I may have overreacted.”</p><p> </p><p>“And I may have been an overstepping dick.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled, last Friday’s memories already forgiven and forgotten in her eyes. “Friends?” And God, did he want to push, did he want to say <em> ‘of course, but I don’t appreciate you blowing me off for almost four days and trying to act like nothing happened’ </em> , or <em> ‘yes, but I’m still worried about you, what’s going on Jules?’ </em>. He wants to, but he won’t. He’s too much of a coward to risk losing her, probably has been for years. Instead, it’s easier to smile, and pull her in for a hug, keeping just enough space between them to not spill peanut sauce on their clothes. “Always.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin pulled back, suddenly self conscious of the fact that he was blocking the pathway to the breakfast bar that served as their unloading dock, and Julia’s hands were quite full. She smiled again, and breezed in as though she had never been absent. “What are you even doing here, I thought you were upstate?”</p><p> </p><p>She laughed a bit, light and amused, as she set out the assortment of cardboard takeout boxes. Quentin stayed back, as his tendency whenever he stepped near their kitchen was to knock things over and set the fire alarm off. It was almost like so many weeknights they had shared for years; taking turns picking up food from local places, picking out b-movies to watch while waiting for James to come home, and bitching about whatever their professors were putting them through this week. Only now there was a tension he couldn’t ignore, and Julia’s ability to pretend it wasn’t there somehow made it worse. Or maybe it really wasn’t there, and he was overthinking again. Neither option was great.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I may have exaggerated a bit to sound cooler, it’s really just outside the city. So, with any luck I’ll be able to come home more frequently.”</p><p> </p><p>Julia didn’t need to say more for Quentin to know that was all she would say of her new studies. Her unwillingness to say more was clear by the way she had waited at the threshold of their apartment, made more ridiculous by the lease being in her name, in the she squared her shoulders after setting out some mismatched plates next to the cartons of pad thai and wonton soup, and especially clear in the way she stared him down from her position on the opposite side of their coffee table; warm, relaxed, but with an underlying promise that broaching this subject again would lead to a confrontation he would not enjoy.</p><p> </p><p>Message received, loud and clear.</p><p> </p><p>It was for the best, he supposed. Quentin wouldn’t know where to begin with his questions even if Julia were willing to talk. James had told him yesterday that apparently she was going into some kind of finance program, which, fine, she had never been interested in finance before, but it was fine, at least it sort of made sense if she was still interested in applying for a political consultant or PR job. What didn’t make sense was how he would know anything about it. While Julia had never expressed an interest in finance, he was actively opposed; too much stress, too many aggressive personalities to deal with. At least, that was the impression Hollywood gave, but regardless. Julia would know that, and she would definitely know that no finance program worth their shit would reach out to him for an interview. Still, to push her mistaken identity story, to push it aside like the obvious bullshit it was, would be to push her further away. He exhaled. He let it go.</p><p> </p><p>Julia settled next to him on the couch a few minutes later, neatly plated takeout in hand. James had frequently teased her for insisting on moving takeout from its’ container to a proper plate before she would settle, but she would tease him back for rendering their perfectly good dining table unusable by piling it with memos and half finished projects, and they would agree to a draw. This time however, it was Quentin’s turn to impede their dining space, since he’d never moved his laptop from it’s place on the coffee table that morning. The table was, objectively speaking, too short to be even remotely ergonomic to work on, but the couch was more comfortable than the barstools James insisted on setting around their not-dining table, sue him. Instead of sliding it to the side, or asking him to move it, Julia leaned over, taking note of the job board Quentin had left up from earlier today.</p><p> </p><p>“Q, you’re applying for teaching jobs?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that, yeah, um, teaching assistant actually?”  Quentin ran his hands through his hair, a fruitless attempt at keeping it out of his face. He knew it wouldn’t stay back, not without tying it in a bun, he just needed something to do with his hands. “And, I mean that’s just one thing, I’ve also put out a few feelers at some publishers, it’s really not a big deal.”</p><p> </p><p>Julia hummed approvingly, gesturing towards his laptop with her fork. “It is a big deal, this is good! I’m glad you’re moving forward, it's good to see you bounce back.” And Quentin- he wasn’t sure what to make of that. Did she not think he could handle grad school, that this was a better option for him? What?</p><p> </p><p>“It’s, um, it’s not really a bounce back, It’s more of-more of a gap year? I still want to get my masters, I just think I need some more time to get my shit together. But, I need something to do for the next year. I was also thinking about trying freelancing? But like, I don’t know where to start. Anyways, I’m just putting school on the backburner for now.” Of course, he would start rambling now, right when he was trying to give of the image of someone who could make and follow through with a plan. Thankfully, Julia didn’t comment, though she did give him a sideways glance and hum again.</p><p> </p><p>“For now, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, maybe you’ll find something to keep you in New York. Maybe you already have. Word travels fast Coldwater, James tells me you had quite the catch over the other night.“ Julia raised her eyebrows in a way that only she could make seem suggestive, and Quentin could physically feel the point where his brain stalled.</p><p> </p><p>“What? He- No, It’s not like that, I was- He wasn’t like, <em> over </em>over, I got really high, and he just-um-he made sure I got home safe? yeah-”</p><p> </p><p>Julia laughed, and it was very clear that the image in her mind was far more amusing than reality. In all likelihood, she was thinking of what he had been like the first time they got high behind the bleachers at one of their high school football games; Then, he had been the sort of guy who would quietly debate for twenty minutes what the socio-economic struggles of badgers would look like in a society run by rabbits. Relaxed, weirder than usual but more comfortable with it, and still at least somewhat aware of the bounds of reality. “Aww, I missed stoned Q? But he’s the best!” Again, Quentin blinked. </p><p> </p><p>“Sort of?  Not really? I’m not sure. I wasn’t actually stoned, I’m still not actually sure what I took.” At least at that, Julia’s face fell<em> . Good, she should feel bad. Let her panic </em>. He hated himself a little for the thought as soon as it came into existence, but not enough to regret it. He suspected that said more about him than it did her.</p><p> </p><p>“For real? Shit, were you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>And God, she actually sounded worried. Genuinely worried, not patronizing, ‘let me brush past your issues so I can talk about my own sooner’ worried, and he was such an ass. Quentin waved her off, a pitiful attempt to downplay the situation. “Yeah, yeah, um, once I stopped hallucinating I was fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, that could have been really dangerous.” Julia exhaled, relief lining her features, and something in her tone bristled something ugly and defensive within Quentin. Sure, it was nice that she was concerned, after the fact, and it wasn’t like she pushed him into that club. Every stupid decision Quentin had made that night was his own damn fault, and his reaction to their fight was definitely overkill. What was there to say, other than that he had a tendency to catastrophize, but she had still let the fight happen, she still shut him out. Obviously that could have been dangerous, obviously he knew that</p><p> </p><p>“Already got the lecture from Dr. London, thanks mom.”</p><p> </p><p>Julia glared at him. It was clear that she thought he was being petulant before she even spoke. “Hey, I’m allowed to worry, asshole.” Reluctantly, Quentin wilted. Fine, she was allowed to worry, but if he did the same, he was supposed to just pretend nothing happened. But, what was the point in bringing it up? They could run in these circles for hours, and all they would have to show for their efforts would be hurt feelings, words they couldn’t take back, and opinions they wouldn’t change. He sighed.</p><p> </p><p>“Right….sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>The room fell uncomfortably quiet, periodically interrupted by the clinking of Julia’s fork against her plate. Quentin considered getting a plate for himself, but he had lost his appetite, and getting up would only mean drawing more attention to himself. Sure, it was an irrational thought, since Julia was the only person present, and she’d already decided what she was and wasn’t going to pay attention too, but anxiety was irrational like that. Another habit he could always rely on, at least.</p><p> </p><p>God, it was no wonder she froze him out, he really was a dick.</p><p> </p><p>“So, um,”  He faltered, trying to get them back on some semblance of even ground. “The finance thing, how’s that going?” She looked up, contemplative. Or perhaps she was just surprised that he was willing to bring it up at all.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, um, it’s pretty cool. You know, second day, still going through syllabus stuff, but the campus is pretty great, and my classmates seem cool.”</p><p> </p><p>As far as answers went, hers was decidedly vague, but Quentin was happy to accept it. Well, happy wasn't quite the right word, but he didn’t feel the need to push. His worries could linger a bit longer, or he could just accept that Julia was an adult and didn’t need him to protect her. In all honesty, she never had. Fortunately, they were saved from any further attempts at conversations neither of them were willing to have by the sound of their front door unlocking. James stepped in, larger than life and Quentin had never been gladder to have a buffer between him and Julia before. What had happened to the days where he had hated James for coming between their friendship? What had happened to the days where he and Julia swore they were going to take on the world? </p><p> </p><p>“Man, you would <em> not </em> believe some of the cases that came in today, people in this city are absolutely <em> crazy- </em>wait, Q did you pick up Thai- wait, Julia, oh my god you’re back!”</p><p> </p><p>It was incredible how in the span of one sentence and seven steps, James could seamlessly go from <em> ‘I need to tell you this work story </em> ’ to ‘ <em> oh hey, food </em> ’ and again to <em> ‘have I mentioned how in love with you I am? </em>’, and somehow be earnest the entire time. Julia was alight, any tension from her conversation with Quentin gone, or at least ignored, as she got up to embrace her boyfriend. By any metric that mattered, they were a perfect couple; attractive, driven, and in tune with one another in a way Quentin wasn’t sure he had ever been with anyone. Good for them. At least they were caught up enough in one another that he could slip away to his room relatively unnoticed.</p><p> </p><p>As his door slid closed behind him, he could just make out James recounting whatever cases his boss had sent to the ‘cases we wouldn’t try for all the money and publicity in the world’ stack, as Julia laughed and said <em> “you think that’s bad? You won’t believe what happened at orientation yesterday-”. </em> Well, at least one of them got to be in the loop. He glanced over towards his alarm clock; a generic, blocky thing that he had been talked into getting in undergrad, under the pretense that it was ‘more fitting of an adult’ than his novelty Fillory one had been. Was 6:32 too early to have a bout of existential dread? Fortunately, Quentin didn’t need to answer that question, as he was pulled from his spiral by his phone going off.</p><p> </p><p>Ideally, this would be where he would throw his phone on his desk. He would let it get lost in the piles of clutter he always pretended he would organize tomorrow, but never did, flop onto his bed, and negotiate whether or not it was worth moving for at least eighteen hours. Nearly did, until he noticed the picture on his call incoming screen; Eliot had sent it to him yesterday afternoon, along with a note that he’d best appreciate it after how much he’d needed to coerce his Bambi into taking it, and leave it to Eliot to make a cell phone photoshoot look like something out of Vogue. It was a shot of him in profile, features softer than they seemed in person, backlit by the tall windows of the reading nook of some vague location. Quentin assumed it had been the library of his ‘pretentious , elitist shitshow of a private school’, but hadn’t thought to ask into it. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck, Eliot had never actually <em> called </em>him before though. What if something was wrong? Quentin wasn’t exactly in any state of mind to be any actual help, shit he would probably just make any situation worse, or-</p><p> </p><p>Or he could get a grip, try to stop making up problems where they didn’t exist yet, and answer the damn phone. Revolutionary. His therapist would be so proud.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Eliot, is everything alright?” Quentin wasn’t sure whether or not to count that greeting as a win. On the upside, he managed to not sound like he was on the edge of an unwelcome downward spiral, but his voice still managed to come out rushed and nearly an octave higher than normal. </p><p> </p><p>Eliot, on the other hand, sounded as effortless as ever. The tell tale sound of wind and passing chatter made it clear he was on the move, but Quentin couldn’t hear even the slightest difference in his breathing as he let out a dramatic sigh. How? Did Eliot not breathe? Was he a vampire? It would explain how stupid hot he was, although that was definitely not the genre of book Quentin expected his life to go in. “Oh, other than my being in desperate need of someone interesting to talk to, yes,”</p><p> </p><p>Well, fuck. Quentin could <em> hear </em>the melodramatic gaze he was giving his invisible audience. He relaxed a little, leaning against his wall, and couldn’t help but chuckle. “So you called me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Obviously.” Eliot said plainly, as though it actually were. “And yes, before you complain, calling you was essential. As endearing as your attempts at texting are, someone really does need to teach you how to type one of these days. I might be able to open some space in my tutoring schedule, if you behave yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin snorted, more of a nervous laugh than anything else. He was under no illusion that his texts were anything but nearly unrecognizable garbage, but when your options were either type fast and hit send before you could overthink it, or double check your spelling and end up deciding the conversation wasn’t worth it because you were only embarrassing yourself, you took was you could get. Not that this was the time for that conversation. He’d been an inebriated disaster of a human both times he had seen Eliot at this point, but possibly still had him convinced that there was a functioning adult under the mess of anxieties that made up his surface. No need to burst that bubble quite yet.</p><p> </p><p>‘Right, because I’m the one who needs to worry about behaving.”</p><p> </p><p>“Quentin Coldwater, are you back talking me? If you really wanted detention that badly- Well, we can make plans for that later.” Eliot purred, his grin audible, and was this man physically capable of approaching anything in his life without devolving into debauchery? It might have been frustrating, were it not for how wholly committed to the part Eliot was. He was a whirlwind, but he was one that was more capable of sweeping you up and leaving you wrecked, but moved to places you never could have imagined otherwise. “Anyways, in the spirit of full disclosure, you are my second choice of conversationalist, but my Bambi is pretty into planning our annual start of semester party, and banned me from helping. She said I’m too opinionated, can you believe it?”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin feigned shock, placing a hand on his chest, despite the fact that no one could see. “You’re kidding. You, opinionated? I  have a really hard time imagining that, no.”</p><p> </p><p>“I knew you would understand.” Eliot deadpanned back.</p><p> </p><p>And this? This, Quentin could do. He slid down the wall, settling on the floor, and listened while Eliot monologued about why an 80s party would be a tacky idea, but an 80s <em> movie </em>party was a thing of art, and how Todd would never be allowed to develop a signature cocktail again after the hangovers he left everyone with at the end of their last term, and Quentin chimed in with an appropriate “uh-huh” and “no, really” at the appropriate moments, and focused on his breathing. Eliot was a spectacular storyteller, sharing just enough to bring you face first into a sweeping narrative, without giving so much detail that you realized you had no memory of the event, because you were never there at all. Quentin wasn’t used to being someone who people wanted to share the mundane details of their lives with, though it was doubtful that any details of Eliot’s life were what any would consider mundane. Still, as much as he was afraid to get used to this, he could.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin committed the egregious error or suggesting that maybe Todd wasn’t that bad, but Eliot’ concluded with an anecdote about last year’s Halloween disaster, where Todd had nearly gotten away with changing the theme to ‘puns’ before he and Margo (presumably Bambi) staged a takedown. Quentin really couldn’t argue with that. Still, as nice as it was to be wrapped up in the narrative that was Eliot Waugh, Quentin couldn’t help but wonder, <em> why him </em>? He took a deep breath, and forced himself to not panic through his next sentence. “I’m really glad you called me, but I don’t get why you aren’t talking to people at your school. Start of the semester, shouldn’t there be a bunch of new people to meet or something?”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Quentin expected, feared, that Eliot would agree with him. That he had fucked up, and Eliot would say ‘<em> you’re right, why </em> am <em> I calling you </em>?’, but no, he simply hummed in acknowledgement. “There are, but they all seem so dreadfully dull. Or angry. Or both. I’d much rather see you again, are you willing to give me a do-over for Saturday?”</p><p> </p><p>Wait, what? But, he hadn’t- “Eliot, There’s really no need. A <em> do-over </em>? that-that wasn’t your fault. But, um, thanks again, for getting me home”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just what any decent person would do.” The words poured through the phone casually, the thought that anyone would behave differently left unspoken. Before the moment could grow somber, Eliot spoke again, his previous energy back in full force. “Still, let me take you somewhere more your speed. For my own sake, of course, I do have a reputation to uphold.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin laughed, half hearted, but interested. With any luck, Eliot could hear him rolling his eyes. “Something tells me the odds of word getting out about this are pretty slim”</p><p> </p><p>“Extremely. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”</p><p>He took a moment to consider. Now that he wasn’t going to Yale, and since he didn’t have to worry about moving out of the loft immediately, he actually had a pretty open schedule. But, he had started to actually make some progress on job applications that morning, and he really should keep that momentum going. Plus, there was a chance Julia would still be around tomorrow morning, and maybe they could talk then. Or maybe they wouldn’t, and he would just be unpleasant company for the rest of the day. Coin flip, really.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m-I’m busy tomorrow, how about Thursday?”</p><p> </p><p>“Consider it done! Now, your answer to this next question is essential to my curating of your experience; What are your opinions on Duchamp?”</p><p> </p><p>“Who?”</p><p>
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</p><p>As it turned out, Quentin did have an opinion about Duchamp. Several, in fact.</p><p> </p><p>“He just put a bicycle wheel. On a stool. And that’s it?”</p><p> </p><p>New York’s Museum of Modern Art was simultaneously everything Quentin had expected, and wholly unpredictable. But mostly, it was weird. Considering how long he had lived in the city, it was strange he’d never come here himself, but he’d always been more interested in fine arts than modern, and given a choice of any museum in the city, he probably would have picked the Natural History one. Regardless, the MoMA was large and sprawling, pristine and sharp, all white walls and clean lines and minimalist architecture that complemented the art it displayed perfectly without overshadowing it. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand any of the art on display, and wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.</p><p> </p><p>At least Eliot was having a blast.</p><p> </p><p>The man in question was grinning ear to ear, clearly in his element (when was he ever <em> not </em>in his element), happy to show off his knowledge of art history and the difference between postmodernism and dadaism, and Quentin couldn’t wait to get back at him by dragging him to a dungeons and dragons night at a local comic shop and showing him up. Or not. No, he definitely wouldn’t come out of that looking any cooler. Still, Quentin thought, he would be cooler than Bicycle Wheel, Marcel Duchamp. 1951. Metal wheel mounted on painted wood stool, regardless of Eliot’s opinion. </p><p> </p><p>“Exactly, he put a bicycle wheel on a stool. But that’s the beauty of Duchamp, it’s not about what he <em> made </em> , it’s about what the thing <em> represents </em>. It’s a blatant rejection of the art world, of the idea that art has to be something adored by the masses!”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot beamed. His joy was infectious, but Quentin just couldn’t get behind this. Especially since- “I get what you’re saying, but it’s still in an art museum.”, he deadpanned. Eliot eyed him, amused, like Quentin was a petulant child and he was so gracious as to take his time explaining the finer points of art to him. Quentin raised his eyebrows, daring him to defend his position. Surprisingly, it was Eliot who laughed first, breaking eye contact.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, but it <em> deserves </em>to be, if for no other reason than the history it represents. Bicycle Wheel is, arguably, the first ever kinetic sculpture. He literally made it just because he liked watching it spin-”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, that explains why you’re so into it, I’m sure you can relate to liking to watch.” he interrupted. Eliot glared at him again, with that same ‘<em> I’m so gracious why don’t you appreciate me </em>’ attitude.</p><p> </p><p>“Hush you, Daddy’s talking now.” He turned his focus back to the sculpture in questions. And there was...there really wasn’t anything different to observe. Four, light wooden legs, attached to a small round base, with a wheel sticking out of the top of it. This perfectly good stool had literally been rendered unusable for the sake of- well, for the sake of something, whether or not this was ‘art’ was questionable, just so people could stand around in a museum and debate whether or not it deserved to be there. He would have felt bad for it, were it not, you know, a stool. </p><p> </p><p>“Anyways, where was I” Eliot continued, “- ah yes! This sculpture was the beginning of a new movement.Of the idea of taking found objects, ugly, unwanted things that would typically be overlooked, and transforming them into something unexpected. Surely that stirs something even in your cold, dead little heart?”</p><p> </p><p>There was a look in his eye that Quentin couldn’t quite place. It was almost as if this strange, sad, unuseable stool was important to him, like an old friend he hadn’t thought of in years. The ‘sculpture’ itself certainly didn’t move Quentin, likely never would, but something in Eliot’s face in that moment did. He sighed, leaning slightly towards his strangely enamoured friend.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay. I get where you’re coming from, I really do. It’s a cool story. But, it’s still a <em> wheel on a stool </em>. I will concede however, that it’s better than the giant squares were.”</p><p> </p><p>Like a switch had flipped, Eliot’s earlier mirth returned with a short, forceful laugh. “Hey, Rothko was a visionary, it’s not his fault you’re incapable of appreciating abstract expressionism. All art doesn’t <em> have </em>to look like something, little Q.”</p><p> </p><p>It was a good thing that society hadn’t set any sort of arbitrary measurement for how much eye rolling was too much, since if they had, Quentin would have crossed that threshold an hour ago. As things were now, he was free to nonverbally indicate to Eliot how completely ridiculous he was as often as he liked. Fortunately, Eliot wasn’t terribly concerned with his mocking, and draped an arm across his shoulders, leading them past the stool. “Have it your way then, perhaps the next collection will be more your speed, you representative shill.”</p><p> </p><p>The path they had trekked through the museum was a meandering, seemingly random one. Instead of following the natural flow of the hallways, immersing themselves in each room in the order the museum curator had intended, Eliot led them back and forth across the building, up and down floors in patterns that in any other circumstance, Quentin would have found overwhelmingly frustrating. However, it was clear from the intent he walked with, from the way his stories about the histories of the pieces they passed rolled off his tongue, that their traversing wasn’t random at all. Eliot had taken his role of self appointed docent very seriously, and had likely mapped out a very specific series of highlights and movements, in a very specific order, and was going to lead this tour his way, museum layout be damned. A curated experience indeed. At least Quentin would definitely reach his step goal today, if he had one.</p><p> </p><p>Yet again, Eliot led him by the arm to a new floor. Just around a corner, past a room full of very small prints he didn’t have time to fully observe, up the stairs, and into a large gallery that occupied the entire floor, marked with a blue and white wall reading “Henri Matisse: The Cut-Outs”.</p><p> </p><p>They strode through the gallery walls, past frame after frame of brightly contrasting images. None were terribly large, nor were they terribly defined, but there was a distinct cohesion to them. The gallery was absolutely loaded, but Eliot clearly had a specific piece in mind he wanted to stop at, as had been the case for most of their afternoon. In truth, it was nice. Quentin liked art, it was pretty hard to spend as much time in New York as he had without developing at least some appreciation for it, but he frequently found these large exhibits overwhelming. He couldn’t shake the unspoken urgency to observe every last piece, and felt stupidly guilty if he didn’t give a painting the time it deserved, and more often than not left the museum with the sense that he had just wasted two hours letting important details and symbols fly completely over his head. With Eliot leading though, he didn’t have to worry about not stopping to check out the red and white canvas that might have been a picture of a goose, or might have been a dancer, he still wasn’t sure, or that he didn’t get the point. Instead he got to spend his time arguing about the validity of the art, with someone who actually appreciated his commentary, and who felt no guilt ignoring the goose. Dancer. Squiggle.</p><p> </p><p>The piece they stopped at was among the smaller ones in the room, slightly larger than your standard sheet of copy paper. It was blue, with a black stripe running down the page, and a crudely drawn silhouette of a person in white in the center. The figure was surrounded by vibrant yellow stars, and after staring at it for a few moments, Quentin realized that the piece wasn’t a painting at all. It was multiple colors of paper, cut and glued over one another, somehow rough and refined all at once.  The sign beside it read; <em> Henri Matisse, Fall of Icarus, 1944. </em> Quentin eyed the piece again, confused. </p><p> </p><p>“So, this is supposed to be Icarus?”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot hummed. “Indeed. It’s actually a favorite of mine.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin turned to Eliot, then back to the picture, and nodded. He was trying to understand why this piece was here, he really was, but modern art had never been his thing before, and this trip, as fun as it had been, wasn’t changing that. “I mean, it’s cool, but I don’t really get it? It’s just paper, there’s not much technique here.”</p><p> </p><p>“You just want to go back to the Van Gogh gallery, you plebeian.” Eliot grinned, teasing.</p><p> </p><p>“I like Starry Night, sue me.” He scoffed back.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry, my lawyer will be in touch with you.” Eliot ruffled Quentin’s hair, and Quentin fought the reflex to pull back. If Eliot noticed, he didn’t comment. “But, you’re right, there’s not much technique here. There is a story though, maybe that will appeal to you more?” </p><p> </p><p>He smiled at Quentin, more earnest than he had been a moment before, but not as vulnerable as he had appeared by the stool. Then it hit him; Eliot had been going out of his way to lead them not to the most famous pieces in the museum collection, or the most controversial or groundbreaking, but to the ones with the best stories. He could have pointed that out to Eliot. He could have told him how thoughtful it was, or let him know he really didn’t need to try that hard to impress him, just tolerating his rambling was enough, but that all felt too loaded, too much feeling for what this was. Instead, he just nodded, silently asking Eliot to go on.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, Eliot was more than happy to continue his performance as a guide, and slipped back into his role with ease. “So, Matisse, he was actually an oil painter and a bronze sculptor. Really interesting use of color, but that’s besides the point. Anyways, life fucked him pretty hard, between the cancer and the surgeries and the going blind, and you know, living through two World Wars. So, he’s essentially an invalid, he’s bedridden, and he doesn’t really have the strength to paint anymore. His career as an artist, by any measurable standard, should be over. He should just roll over, expose his soft underbelly to the universe, and say ‘I quit’. “ Eliot paused for a moment, placing his hands in his trouser pockets. If smoking were allowed inside the building, no doubt he would have lit a cigarette then for dramatic effect. “Only, this motherfucker doesn’t. Instead, he grabs a pair of scissors and starts making layouts, starts cutting entire pieces of art that he can work on from the comfort of his wheelchair. He developed an entirely new art style, pioneered a movement for a decade all because he could. I really can’t think of a better ‘fuck you’ to the universe. And this? This is the first piece he cut.”</p><p> </p><p>Well. That certainly was a story. Quentin took another moment to absorb the cut-out. It still wasn’t the sort of art he would have sought out, rough and too bold and too bright, but he could kind of see what Eliot had meant now; the energy of the movement, the desperation of the shapes, or maybe he was just reading too much into it. Either way, it was a pretty cool story, and for it to be derived from Icarus and Daedalus’s flight...</p><p> </p><p>“That’s...wow. That’s actually pretty incredible. Ironic too.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?” Eliot looked at him, slightly bemused, probably expecting another back and forth like their one from the last floor. However, this piece was centered around mythology, and Quentin fully intended to actually contribute to this discussion.</p><p> </p><p>“You just said, this is the first one he did? But, it’s Icarus. He made wings to escape a prison of his father’s making. Well-okay, that’s not entirely true, it was actually Minos’s prison, and the reasons why Daedalus were imprisoned vary from telling to telling, but- right, point is, Icarus never did anything to deserve being locked up, he just pulled the short stick when it came to dads.” Quentin paused to take a breath, and recollect his thoughts. Fewer tangents, more actual points. “Then, you know, he flies too close to the sun and gets <em> royally </em>screwed for it. But this guy, Matisse, used that story to escape the prison of his body and redefine his career. It’s just ironic, and kind of fucked up. How the story of one man’s death can become the story of another’s reinvention.”</p><p> </p><p>Sure, maybe that had been a bit pretentious, a little moody, but that was pretty on-brand for him. Finding the sadness, even in a story of triumph. Self consciously, he realized Eliot hadn’t laughed at him, or answered with some sort of sarcastic retort, or teased him for overthinking things. He turned, sparing Eliot a cautious glance. He expected to find him with an eyebrow raised, playfully judgmental and with a cutting remark prepared. Instead. Quentin found him staring, slightly stunned, mouth just barely agape. He faltered.</p><p> </p><p>‘Was that too weird? Um, I was planning on getting my master’s in philosophy. Sorry I don’t know why I’m like this?”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot blinked, recollecting himself. “No, you’re fine. I’m just surprised you were able to contribute anything meaningful to this discussion.” His tone was deadpan, but the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes said he was amused.</p><p> </p><p>And well, if the best reaction Quentin could think of was to feign offense, shove against his arm, and call him an ass, who would really blame him?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>‘Wait, let me get this straight; you live here with the girl you crushed on for all of high school, and her boyfriend, and I’m supposed to believe you’re <em> not </em>a masochist?”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot laughed, his head tipped back against the seat of the sofa, and Quentin followed suit. He shouldn’t have been able to make sitting on the floor, tie loosened and blazer abandoned...somewhere, resting against a perfectly good couch that they had long since slid off of look graceful, but good God he did. He looked like the kind of man who should lounge on expensive furniture with a glass of wine to swirl professionally. Though, if Quentin voiced the thought, he suspected Eliot would likely argue that swirling the wine would be wasteful if he wasn’t actively smelling it, or whatever people who know about wine talk about. All Quentin knew about wine was that they were halfway through their second bottle, which probably wasn’t his best decision, but he fortunately was too relaxed to care. He grinned.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, you can believe whatever you want, but yes, that is the situation.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin gestured upwards with his glass, in mock toast. Or maybe he just needed to do something with his hands. Eliot sighed, only slightly more dramatically than one would have expected, and brushed a hand through his hair. Suddenly, <em> ‘I need something to do with my hands </em> ’ felt a lot more like <em> ‘I need to </em> wreck <em> his perfect fucking hair’ </em>. Would he even need his hands? Unbidden images flashed through his mind, of how he could take Eliot apart, open mouthed against his throat, his chest, his inner thigh, driving Eliot to wreck that perfect mess of dark curls himself. Fuck. Quentin was suddenly grateful for both the ceiling and the wine; the former for occupying Eliot’s attention at the moment, the latter for providing some plausible deniability for his flush. “Incredible, and here I thought you were a sad floppy bastard before this conversation started.”</p><p> </p><p>Wait. Shit, what had they been talking about? “What does that even mean?” Quentin pondered, his words distinctly more drawn out than they had been an hour ago. The corners of Eliot’s eyes crinkled in laughter. Clearly, he didn’t have an answer either, and instead opted to grab their mostly-consumed bottle of merlot and top off both their glasses. </p><p> </p><p>“The fact that we’re asking at all, probably means we need more wine”</p><p> </p><p>One of the downsides of living in a loft in Brooklyn was that space was always hard to come by. Fortunately, James had come up with a system for them in undergrad to house a halfway decent supply of wine by deciding they didn’t <em> really </em> need to use the shelf over the laundry unit to store things like detergent or other frivolities. Also fortunately, the same James who came up with the brilliant idea that allowed them to keep more than two bottles in the apartment at a time had left town that morning for a family emergency. Obviously, it wasn’t fortunate for him, but between his unscheduled absence and Julia’s return to the program she had deemed more important than anything else, he and Eliot had the place to themselves. Quentin couldn’t remember the last time there was company at the apartment, outside of people who lived there, that he actually <em> wanted </em>to see. Even if he could remember, he certainly couldn’t have imagined being friends with someone who seemed more at ease, at home in this place than even he had after living here for four years. Though, that wasn’t a high bar to clear. Eliot sat up slightly, withdrawing his arm from it’s delicate sprawl across the couch, his face thoughtful.</p><p> </p><p>“Come to think of it, I could have used this two hours ago when you insisted on watching that performer.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin blinked, trying to remember what he was referring to. The museum had only taken them a couple of hours, especially since they hadn’t stopped to look at each and every piece, but neither of them had been ready to part ways. Fortunately, midtown Manhattan wasn’t exactly short on things to do, least of all near major tourist sites in the Summer. And well, when in Rome and all that. They grabbed a couple of hot dogs from a local vendor, Quentin had argued about the merits of sauerkraut while Eliot looked at him in abject horror, and while weaving their way between groups of families on vacation and commuters heading home, they found a few local performers to watch. The guy playing two guitars at once had been pretty incredible, and had inspired more than one crude remark fro El, then there had been-</p><p> </p><p>“What, the contortionist? I’m pretty sure she was your idea.”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot scoffed. “No no, also, <em> fuck </em> , did you have to remind me of that? I’ll never be able to unsee what she did with your shoulders. No, I meant the guy with the terrible magic tricks <em> you </em>insisted on watching.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh yeah. That guy.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin laughed, recalling the attempt at a performance they had seen, “Come on El, I had to see how bad it was gonna get. That guy was a complete hack, his showmanship was <em> terrible </em>.” Eliot should have been fully on board with him, he seemed like the kind of guy who laughed at proverbial train crashes on at least a bi-weekly basis, yet the show had made him cringe more than Quentin thought his face was capable of. At least the eight year old in the crowd had been enamored.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, and you know so much about showmanship, mister I unironically wear off-brand converse?” Eliot redirected, giving him an amused side eye.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Actually I- Wait, what’s wrong with my shoes?” Should he have been offended? Quentin felt like he should have been offended. His offence however, was clearly of no consequence to Eliot, who turned to look him up and down in bemused judgement.</p><p> </p><p>“Everything darling, but do continue.”</p><p> </p><p>Well, that answered absolutely nothing, yet somehow , Quentin didn’t mind feeling completely and utterly judged by Eliot. He would have to tuck that thought away to explore later. “Um-err, well, ok, so yeah he had style, I guess, his vest was cool and all-”</p><p> </p><p>“Please, that cheap polyester thing?”</p><p> </p><p>And rude or not, Quentin had to at least chuckle at that. “Do you want me to explain why we had to watch him, or do you want to interrupt me?” He took a moment to recollect himself, and take another sip of his wine. “Anyways, no, he had like, the look down, sure, but his technique was garbage, no flourish whatsoever, I swear he almost dropped his hinged spoon during the switch-”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, the spoon had a hinge?” Eliot looked genuinely shocked, and it was frankly, was more endearing than it had any right to be. Quentin swallowed, and tried to remember the finer points of poor performance he had intended to criticize. None came to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, yeah, one of them did, and stop interrupting!” He shoved against El’s shoulder, for maybe the dozenth time that day, nearly spilling his glass, before taking a moment to refocus. In for seven, out for five. “Anyways, yeah point is, he was a hack.” </p><p> </p><p>And Eliot gave him such a look, audacious and bold and challenging, every inch a man accustomed to getting exactly his way. “Oh he was now? I dare you to do better, Coldwater.”</p><p> </p><p>And Quentin, wine drunk and filled with false confidence, who was he to pass up a challenge? “Actually, I’ll have you know…”</p><p> </p><p>He stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping onto El <em> twice </em> , before just bracing his arms on the sofa and stumbling to the shelves that lined his living room wall. They weren’t filled, far from it, and the assortment adorning their surface far outnumbered books. Sure, there were a few of his favorite textbooks; an obligatory copy of The Hero’s Journey, a few journals on modern myth that struck his fancy, and even a few of Julia’s books on public finance and policy she hadn’t gotten around to reselling, but the shelves were more occupied with assorted knick-knacks. There was an old Polaroid he and Julia swore they would learn to use, but never did, the globe James brought to their home, dotted with the places he hoped to travel too, resting on the top shelf, James’ vinyl collection, but the one thing he needed was tucked in the teal tackle box that his granddad had given him as a kid, covered by a thin coat of dust. Perhaps once, his dad had held hopes of multi-generational fishing trips, but Quentin demonstrated a dramatic disinterest in fishing from a young age, and those hopes died around the same time Grandpa Albert himself had. At least the tackle box had found new life in re-purposing. Instead of housing extra line, hooks, or ornate flies, it housed trick coins, short lengths of rope, and most importantly, <em> cards </em>. Without much fanfare, he plucked a deck from the old case, and turned back to where Eliot waited with bated breath. Well. mild amusement, but the former was a nice lie.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll have you know you’re in the presence of the Columbia Class of 2015’s greatest magician.”</p><p> </p><p>It would be a bigger lie to say he didn’t see Eliot’s laugh coming, but at least he seemed to be laughing with Quentin and not at him. Even the judgement in his eyes seemed strangely fond. “High praise, was there a lot of competition?.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiled, and tucked his chin down in a feeble attempt to hide his flush behind his hair. Hopefully, the gesture seemed like a natural part of settling back on the ground, or at least like an extension of the unnatural way he existed in any space he occupied. “Oh my god, just shut up and pick a card.” Quentin laughed, splaying the deck towards Eliot.</p><p> </p><p>The secret to a good card trick, Quentin had learned long ago, wasn’t in knowing the most complicated tricks or doing some elaborate card counting schemes. No, everything was always about misdirection. Even the most basic of sleight of hand tricks could be made exciting again with the right finishing touches. It was more important to know when to twist your hand dramatically enough that your audience never noticed you performing the real trick with the other, telling a joke at the right time so the viewer would laugh, and forget<em> just for a moment </em> what they were supposed to be watching for, or fumbling a trick and making a mess of it, dropping all the contents of your sleeves on the floor so your participant would be all the more surprised when they found the missing coin was in their hand all along. Quentin’s dexterity was a little off for the time being, and Eliot was more attentive than his usual audience was, but he played the part of a good audience member at least. He laughed at the appropriate moments, made sure to actually turn his focus when Quentin would dramatically wave his hand to the side, in the most subtle gesture he could pull off after three glasses, and somehow didn’t make Quentin feel like a complete loser for being at his most confident when hiding behind amateur magic tricks. After a final shuffle, he finally drew what should have been Eliot’s card from the elaborate spread he had laid between their laps, only-</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry Q, that is definitely not my card. Nice try though.” At least El had the good graces to chuckle, let him down easy. Quentin sighed, and leaned forward to clean the deck up.</p><p> </p><p>“Eh, it’s fine, I’m out of practice anyways. I just hope it hasn’t gone missing- oh would you look at that,” He shifted slightly forward, leaning into Eliot’s personal space. Delicately, he traced a fingertip along the neck of his vest, and when he withdrew from El’s orbit, he withdrew the missing card from between his vest and shirt as well. “There we are, the king of clubs. Looks like you had it this whole time.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin leaned back into his space, legs crossed and smiling awkwardly. Eliot’s face was...completely unreadable. Simultaneously serious and socked at once, and possibly confused? Fuck, what if he had completely misread the situation, had broken some unspoken agreement. Had he come in too close? Had he managed to be the one thing that could make Eliot Waugh uncomfortable? His tongue prepared a stream of excuses while his brain caught up, but Quentin was cut off before he could further embarrass himself. “Fuck. Q, how did you do that?”</p><p> </p><p>Oh. Or he was drunk and confused. That made more sense. Quentin forced himself to relax, a fruitless effort if one ever existed, but he could run with this. He smiled. “Ah-ah, a magician never reveals his tricks-.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Eliot cut him off, his voice deep, serious, “Except that wasn’t a trick, that was a perfectly executed materialization”</p><p> </p><p>“Perfectly executed what?” Quentin faltered, then laughed. Sure, he had a knack for card tricks, but he’d been practicing them since he was ten, they’d better look good. Still, either Eliot was giving him a really weird compliment, or he was way more out of it than Quentin had realized, and it was time to fish out some spare blankets and set him up on the couch for the night. “What are you talking about, Jesus Christ Eliot, you’re really drunk”</p><p> </p><p>The aforementioned Eliot didn’t react, only gave him a look that somehow added wonder to the seriousness of his voice. “oh my God, you actually don’t know” </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I’m pretty sure I do? Look, if it’s bothering you that much, I can show you how I did it in the morning, it’s really easy. Kid stuff.” </p><p> </p><p>Eliot shook his head in response, and turned so his entire body was facing Quentin. “Yeah, sure, show me in the morning, but first, humor me?” Quentin gave him a puzzled look while he stretched his hands, then held them out with his fingers bent, tips touching, save for his index fingers which were extended upwards. He glanced upwards at him, eyes heavy with intent.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, I know this is strange, but just, copy what I do.”</p><p> </p><p>This was undoubtedly the strangest slumber party game Quentin had ever been invited to play. But, as much as he wanted to ask what had gotten into Eliot, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wouldn’t get an answer from him without playing first. There didn’t seem to be any harm, it was just like cat's cradle without the string. You know, if cat’s cradle was a game played in complete silence by adult men, on the floor, after a couple bottles. Eliot twisted his hands carefully, moving with the sort of precision one would expect from looking at him. Quentin did his best to copy, but Eliot stopped more than once to correct him. <em> ‘No, like this’ </em>, he would murmur, as he repositioned Quentin’s index fingers in line with the rest of his hand. While he liked the contact more than he cared to admit, he was getting frustrated, following along with absolutely no idea what they were doing. After the third time copying the movement, he was about to snap at Eliot. Humor him indeed, was this some sort of joke, see how long he was willing to copy along, waiting for something to happen? Yeah, real funny, he already knew he was a super nerd, and really didn’t appreciate it being rubbed in like this, or whatever Eliot was playing at, and-</p><p> </p><p>And were those sparks?</p><p> </p><p>Jesus fucking <em> Christ </em> , his fingertips were <em> sparking </em> . No, wait, they weren’t, sparks were just flying from them. Out of <em> fucking nowhere </em>. He looked up at Eliot, hands alight, and in equal parts hoping what he thought was happening was true, and ready to call Dr. London again for an emergency appointment.</p><p> </p><p>“Holy shit. Holy shit, El, what’s happening?” He whispered, terrified to break whatever was happening. He could <em> feel </em>something within himself circulating, a sort of secondary pulse he wasn’t ready to cut off. Instinctively, he knew it was the source of the phenomena. Instinctively, he knew the name as well. Fear held his tongue, nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>The sparks died out, as did their reflection in Eliot's eyes. However, the absence of lights did nothing to abate the unadulterated awe in those eyes. He looked up from Quentin’s hands, and spoke softly, yet gleefully. “Magic. You’re a fucking magician.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin laughed, a choked out nervous sort of thing. “No shit Hagrid, but what’s happening?” Eliot kept his eyes fixated on Quentin’s own, raw and honest and strangely vulnerable.</p><p> </p><p>“I just said. Magic. It’s real, and you can do it.”</p><p> </p><p>He fell back as much as one could when already sitting on the floor. This was- this was the sort of wish fulfillment he’d spent years hoping for as a kid, but knew never would actually happen, had  grown out of over a decade ago. Too good to be true didn’t even begin to cover it. “Fuck. Am I hallucinating?”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot smiled, and Quentin wanted nothing more in that moment than to believe everything he said. “If you were, how would asking me help?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The air in the apartment was positively charged, alight with a sensation he could taste, but couldn’t quite name. <em> An aftereffect of casting, you usually only get it with the big stuff, but it’s good that your first time was special </em> , Eliot had said, his tone careless but his face strangely reverent. Casting. Quentin had stayed up all night, casting actual magic. <em> Actual </em> magic, which was <em> actually real </em> . Holy shit, magic was <em> actually real </em> . In the span of a moment, Quentin had taken his first breaths, awoken from a coma, and learned to see in color. If this was where his life had been leading to, it was all worth it; the appointments, the unwillingness to give up his childhood fantasies, the general sense of always being lost, it was all worth it because now, magic was real and <em> he could use it </em>. Every single doubt he had ever had disappeared with the sun, with the contents of a third bottle of wine, with the awkward twisting of hands as he tried to recreate the graceful lines and patterns Eliot’s own crafted. Magic was real, and Quentin finally knew how it felt to feel alive.</p><p> </p><p>He should have known better than to think it would last.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin was more at ease than he had been in years, a tension he had barely known existed all but gone from his shoulders, his head rolled back against the sofa. The skin on the back of his neck still prickled from where Eliot had held it, in the early hours of the day when he finally made his withdrawal from the loft; One hand cuffed on Quentin’s shoulder, his eyes more serious than he was used to seeing on Eliot. <em> “I’ll show you more, I promise. I just need to check on some things first. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime, like trying to cast an invisible fire or something.” </em> he had said, equal parts a warning and a promise. His chest had fluttered at the contact, and all he could dumbly reply was <em> “why would anyone need to cast an invisible fire?”. </em>Eliot had said something about committing invisible arson, obviously, but his hand had lingered as he stood in the doorway. Then, exit, pursued by something small and frail and far more reminiscent of hope then he cared to admit.</p><p> </p><p>The next few hours passed blissfully. He made his way to the kitchen, prepared what would be the first of many cups of coffee, and settled back on the couch to repeat the spell that had become his favorite so far; a delicate twisting of fingers and a slide of hand that could turn small objects invisible. It came so easily, for all he knew he’d been doing this trick for years with cards and coins, only now it was directed towards his mug, towards the television remote, oh fuck he would have to reverse that before it was lost forever. Another manipulation, and the remote returned, though he suspected it would be lost again for non-magical reasons within the week. Or maybe they had been magical all along. God, the thought was exhilarating. Honestly, he had a shit ton of questions for Eliot that he should have brought up earlier, starting with “what the fuck” and “where did you learn how to do this” and ending somewhere around “Is Kim Kardashian a wizard? because mind control spells would explain so much. Wait is mind control a thing? That raises so many ethical concerns.”, but those questions could wait. Things were always uglier the closer you looked into them, and right now, this was something that could, that should, stay beautiful. He wouldn’t change that until he absolutely had to.</p><p> </p><p>So, for a moment, he was content, settled in the morning light and wrapped up in a sunbeam and a secret, and the occasional scattering of sparks from his fingertips. Then, sometime around his third cup of coffee, his phone rang.</p><p> </p><p>His first reflex was to assume it was a spam call, but he knew that was just his inherent desire to not speak to people more than he needed to coming out. In all likelihood, it was probably a response to one of the applications he had sent out in the last week. That thought alone was enough to fracture the barrier magic had built around him. Was he really supposed to settle down as a teaching assistant while he got his shit together, now that he had an idea that the world was so much bigger? Probably yes, but how? Still, he was lucky to hear back from anyone this soon, so even if he ended up following Eliot down a path of magical discovery <em> and wasn’t that a thought? </em>, scheduling a few job interviews would be a good idea. Given his track record with interviews, he would need more than a few. Only, the caller ID wasn’t a recruiting agency, or one of the dozen major and minor publishing houses he had sent his resume to.</p><p> </p><p>“...Dad? Um, hey, what’s up?”</p><p> </p><p>The other end of the line was silent. Conversations with his Dad were usually like this, riddled with half starts and unspoken negotiations before any real ground could be covered. When was the last time they had actually talked? Sometime around May, perhaps, close to graduation? He had sounded...fuck, he had sounded so proud, he wanted to take Quentin out to celebrate. Instead, he had fed his dad a million excuses, that he was busy with friends, had to wrap up one more thing for his thesis, needed to check in with one of the TAs, until his Dad stopped asking. In truth, he just hadn’t had the energy to make the trip. He hadn’t even bothered attending his commencement. </p><p> </p><p>His musings were broken once the moment had lingered long enough to be truly awkward, by his dad clearing his throat. “Curly Q, I wasn’t sure you would pick up. I, ah, I figured I was just gonna leave you a message.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s...I mean, if you’d rather do that I can hang up? Just, not pick up again?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, Son, it’s good to hear you. Let’s just talk, alright?” </p><p> </p><p>Only, the last time they had just talked, Quentin was a sophomore in college. It was spring break, and Julia had finally given up on convincing him to fly to Cancun with her. So, he’d opted to go back to Montclair. Quentin was under no illusions that he was somehow good company, especially not back then. Maybe his Dad had some childish dream that they would spend the week working on model planes and going on father-son fishing expeditions, and maybe at one point he would have wished to be a kid who enjoyed those things, but he wasn’t. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone that he spent the week like he always did; tucked into whatever corner he could find, sometimes reading a textbook but usually reading Fillory again, and maybe practicing a few card tricks. Things he could do by himself, things that were <em> better </em> by himself. Which was why it had bothered him so much when, three days into his stay, his father had pulled him aside, all concern and compassion, and said he was <em> worried for him </em> . But, why now? He wasn’t in a bad place, his medication was working again, he was passing all his classes. He just didn’t feel like socializing. Why couldn’t he say he was worried when something was <em> actually </em>wrong? The fight that followed had been awful. Quentin crossed a few lines he knew he couldn’t take back, and his Dad had just taken each verbal hit. Afterwards, it had been easier to freeze him out than admit how badly he had fucked up. Neither of them brought it up again, and neither of them tried to broach serious subjects again.</p><p> </p><p>Julia, on the other hand, had come back to New York with a brutal sunburn that covered just about her entire body, a prescription for specialty shampoo, and an aversion to shrimp tacos that lasted to this day. All things considered, he probably had the better spring break of the two.</p><p> </p><p>Needless to say, if Quentin sounded on edge, which he knew he did, they both knew there was a reason for it. “Yeah, alright, I can do that.” The words came out slow, their unfamiliarity both in and out of this context making itself as well known as the silence that followed. Typical.</p><p> </p><p>“Anyways, how have you been doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Um, fine? I guess?” One of the worst parts of only communicating with a small circle of people, was never being sure what they had and hadn’t shared with one another. Julia wasn’t exactly in contact with his Dad, not any more than he was, but they still talked occasionally. For all his faults, Ted Coldwater was way warmer than Julia’s own family, and she’d gone to him for advice and emotional support often enough in high school. Frankly, her relationship with his dad was definitely better than his own. Maybe she’d mentioned that he wasn’t going to grad school, that he was taking a gap year, that he didn’t seem to have a clue what he was doing with his life-</p><p> </p><p>“I know this is strange, and I had hoped you would come to me Curly Q, but, well, you’re still on my health insurance. I know you checked yourself in for treatment last month, and I-” Oh. Right, there was that too.</p><p> </p><p>“Dad, it’s really not a big deal. I was only in for a weekend, and-and I’m fine now, and why are you bringing this up now? It’s old news, and kind of an invasion of privacy-”</p><p> </p><p>“And it’s the <em> only way </em>I ever find out if you’re alright or not.” And again, silence. Like darkness, an old friend. Uncomfortably familiar and really good at coming back into your life unannounced. Still, it was favorable to the hysteria he had just pushed back behind the dam, to the overwhelming empathy his Dad let flow freely. Sure, they could rehash this fight again; Independence versus familial concern, they seemed to have it every few years anyways, but what was the point? They always drew the same battle lines, and they always knew their opponent was unwilling to compromise. He tried not to dwell too much on his mind assigning his father the position of opponent. He tried, but it would be easier if the man didn’t step into the role with such ease.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen, I- I don’t know. If you just want to talk about the hospital stay, there really isn’t anything to say. Things looked like they were getting rough, I went to get help, they turned out to be fine, I left. I’m sorry I don’t have a more exciting story for you than that, but this was without a doubt, the most boring inpatient stay yet. There wasn’t even any drama over pudding cup distribution. So, if that’s it, I should probably get back to-”</p><p> </p><p>“Quentin, wait.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, I’m waiting, What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I...God, I’m, you know I’m not good with words. Quentin, I’m dying.”</p><p> </p><p>In the split second followed, Quentin understood what it meant for all air to be sucked from a room. The inhalation he had just taken was involuntary, but now his lungs had forgotten how to work, and he didn’t know how to tell them to breathe. This morning’s languid energy had already been slipping, and now the tether was cut, and he was left drenched in cold and the weight of the word ‘<em> dying’ </em> . Finally, <em> finally </em> , his throat burning with too many words, he exhaled a singular mess of a sentence. “ <em> I’msorrywhat </em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“The doctors found it a couple weeks ago. It’s, ah, it’s a glioblastoma. Brain tumor?-” The symptoms had apparently started a few months ago; headaches that wouldn’t go away for hours, vision that went fuzzy at the most inopportune times, leading a few near incidents on the stairs to his workshop, and a tremor in his hand he had ignored. Quentin tried to pay attention to his words, to all the signs that were small enough to ignore until everything came crashing down like he had when he had a seizure  in the parking lot at Trader Joe’s last week, but focus was hard to come by over the ringing in his ears. He was rambling, like Quentin was prone to so often, but while Quentin rambled in an attempt to contextualize, giving anyone around him way more information than they ever wanted, his dad rambled to stall, and there was only so much stalling about how thoughtful the neurologist was or how crowded the parking lot at the hospital had been that Quentin could take.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s your treatment plan?” He cut into the middle of an undoubtedly charming, but ultimately pointless anecdote about the receptionist at the office telling him about a hidden parking lot for their patients that, knowing his dad, probably wasn’t all that hidden, he had just missed all the signs for it. The first beat of silence that followed was ample time for his Dad to re-calibrate from the interruption. The second, more than long enough for him to get his words in order. The third said everything.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not treating it, are you?” The words were half spit, half choked, and all harsher than intended.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean….no, I’m not. It was already pretty advanced when they found it. Even with chemo, the prognosis isn’t good, and I don’t want to live like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“So what, you’re just going to-you’re going to give up? Do you think that there’s <em> maybe </em>a chance that’s the tumor talking?”</p><p> </p><p>“Curly Q, the doctors agree with me.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re…Dad, <em> no </em> . We’re going to find a way to fix this, <em> we are </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>His Dad, who was <em> dying </em>, oh god he was actually dying, chucked. “There really isn’t much to fix. I’m alright, I really am, I just want to make the most of the time we’ve got left. Can...can we do that?”</p><p> </p><p>“I-Yeah, yeah, we can do that... Can I come see you this weekend?</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to ask, of course you can. I’ve missed you Son.” And God, he hadn’t heard his Dad sound this resigned since he was eleven, and the divorce papers had officially been filed. He really was done, there was nothing left to do.</p><p> </p><p>But honestly? Fuck that. Maybe his Dad was ready to call it in, maybe yesterday Quentin would have been ready to call it in too. But fuck. That. Magic was real, and he had a god damn quest. </p><p> </p><p>Quentin could feel the framework of his mind shifting into familiar patterns; patterns of focus and repetition he and Julia had relied on for the rare occasion where they actually needed to cram for a final, or the less rare occasion where they put off a paper for too long. Make more coffee, find an inkling of an idea that might be worth exploring, exploit it for everything it has. His laptop, which he had previously intended to ignore for the day, became a lifeline. Did diving down a rabbit hole of poorly constructed amateur websites touting real witchcraft count as doing something stupid in the meantime? Maybe, but he would have to bother Eliot about his sources for learning spells later. This was a phone call discussion, not a text, and he had enough to keep him occupied until Eliot was out of class.</p><p> </p><p>Hours passed. Once he found a website with clear instructions for casting, and good God, Eliot had been serious, an actual invisible fire, Quentin knew he was on to something. Sure, so some of the pages seemed genuinely dangerous, but he wasn’t doing anything stupid. He was just looking for answers, developing a baseline for the sorts of questions he would need to ask Eliot later. His search terms gradually became more specific, as certain patterns made themselves clear. Anything with a banner image that was just a close up photo of quartz spears was worthless, wands did nothing, and if a page mentions “tuts” or “poppers”, it was worth reading. Night fell, and he found a compendium of minor tabloid articles claiming to be proof of real witches in America. The site itself was conspiracy theorist schlock of the highest order, claiming that the entire world government was ruled by a secret society of demon worshipers, but a few of the low-res photos the site hosted were promising; groups of young people caught on CCTV outside of run down dives and condemned buildings, their hands moving in practiced, familiar patterns, an icon of a star with a keyhole, hidden in plain sight on the windows of those same structures, missing persons reports of individuals returning to their lives months, sometimes years later, with no memories and that same icon tattooed on their arms. And still, he wasn’t doing anything stupid. He’d lost track of time, and it would be rude to reach out to Eliot with questions this late. In the meantime, what was he supposed to do, waste valuable research time? By morning, he had an address in Queens. And if he went, he wasn’t doing anything stupid, he was just getting a head start, showing some initiative and finding magic on his own.</p><p> </p><p>It was ironic, in a pretty fucked up sort of way. His dad was dying, and that story was starting his reinvention. The bar wasn’t open yet, and wouldn't be for at least another four hours, but it was late enough in the morning to be occupied by a few staff members. Still, his interest wasn’t in the bartender polishing pilsner after pilsner, nor the handwritten sign advertising two-for-one martinis for ladies on Wednesday nights. No, Quentin’s focus was firmly set on the glass panes beside the door, and the nearly imperceptible symbol hiding beneath the bar’s name. McNaughton’s might have looked like any other wannabe Irish pub in New York, but that seven pointed star clearly said otherwise. Regardless of where Quentin had been staring though, he had apparently been staring long enough to get the bartender’s attention. He glowered at Quentin from behind his counter, and motioned for him to get lost. Fortunately, nearly twenty-four hours of research and two nights without sleep had successfully silenced every part of his brain that would have told him to turn around, to find another way in, to stop hyperfixating. Fortunately, he remained planted, and gave the bartender his best “surprise, I’m not going anywhere” smile and wave. Clearly unsatisfied with Quentin’s display, which he thought had been almost charming, the guy behind the counter set his cloth down, and stalked towards the entrance. As he rolled down his sleeves, Quentin thought he could make out a few patches of black ink on his forearms. That was as good an indicator as any that he could be straightforward with this guy. Good, at least this part would be easy. </p><p> </p><p>The bartender-Wizard? Boss? He would have to ask about proper terminology later, opened the door halfway, his body blocking the entrance. He was only slightly taller than Quentin, and not quite as broad. Still, he gave off a very clear “do not fuck with me” vibe, and made no efforts to keep that vibe quiet.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen kid, can’t you read? We don’t open till three, capisce? So get lost, I’ve got a lot of prep work to do still and I don’t have time for some lost kid loitering.”</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, nearly twenty-four hours of research and two nights without sleep had successfully silenced every part of Quentin’s brain that might have been able to come up with a cool response. Fortunately, his self consciousness was also quiet, so he would have to remember to be mortified by this exchange later.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I can read, but I do have a question for you,” Quentin reached into his pocket, made a show of his hand coming out empty, and focused. Just a turn of the wrist, a slide of his index finger, and the king of hearts materialized in his palm. It was a less clean transition than he usually performed, but usually, he didn’t even realize what he had done. Now, the casting <em> was </em>the performance, and if he overcharged the spell a bit to let a few extra sparks show, who would stop him? “Is this your card?”</p><p> </p><p>The bartender was clearly unimpressed, but gave him a once over anyways. He looked incredibly bored with his appraisal, and Quentin was almost certain he would send him away, He would be back though, he was very good at making his presence other people’s problems. It would be interesting to weaponize that for once, instead of letting it be a statement of fact. Yet he was dragged from his plotting by an affirmative sound.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright kid, what exactly do you want?”</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he would regret this later. That was fine, that was tomorrow Quentin’s problem. Today’s Quentin was on the precipice, taking a final breath in anticipation. He was Icarus, a hair’s breadth from falling, and reborn in paper and desperation all at once, ready to take the plunge.</p><p> </p><p>“I want in.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Find me at Tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theauditty</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Word in These Halls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Rabbits don’t live in New York. Quentin fucks up.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to Rubick for beta reading and cheerleading during the writing of this chapter. It's the longest one yet, and I hope you all enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>We move like the ocean,</p><p>But I can't swim</p><p>                                   -Bad Suns</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The last two weeks had, undoubtedly, been the craziest of Quentin's life. That really wasn't saying much, as the only contenders included being grounded for accidentally starting a card counting ring or being hospitalized, but, still. Even if he were someone with actual stories to tell, this summer would have taken the cake.</p><p> </p><p>Magic was nothing short of incredible. Magic also, as it turned out, was an absolute shit ton of work. Still, the three stars lining his forearm served as a physical reminder that there was nothing better he could be doing with his time. The safe house in the back room of McNaughton's became his second home, their catalog of spells his closest friends, and sleep a long forgotten memory. In a matter of days, his coven had completely changed his life, and rendered the problems of his former life meaningless. Why bother looking for a job when you can just fuck with an ATM? Why would you ever be afraid that you were doomed to be forever alone, when you knew you were privy to a world so vibrant, so alive, it was impossible to imagine you ever survive without it? Why worry about how you're going to spend your life when you know you can spend it on quest after quest, on becoming a part of something so much bigger than yourself?</p><p> </p><p>Okay, so he was getting ahead of himself. Fears didn't go away overnight. Even magic couldn't fix his brain, it seemed. But it could replace his old problems with newer, more interesting ones at least. He was on a quest, albeit a small one, and somehow, tracking down a gravity belt in this bustling warehouse felt far more approachable than questioning what the hell had gone wrong between him and everyone he knew.</p><p> </p><p><em> Seriously, you can worry about that later. Quest now </em>, his brain helpfully supplied. Since joining the McNaughton's coven, Quentin had seen the surface of a thriving magical underworld, so large and so extreme it was completely baffling that no one on the outside knew it was here. The complex network of Hedge Bars, spaces specifically designed for socializing and bartering spells, abundance of people casting in the middle of the day (just yesterday, he had seen three people lock their bikes outside their apartments using spells instead of locks, and a woman in Central Park casting rainbows in the afternoon rain), and existence of expansive warehouse marketplaces like the one he found himself in today all came together in an incredible testament to the jaded nature of New Yorkers. And to think, less than a fortnight ago, he had been just as blind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ("Well, you're an annoying little shit but you've got my attention. You want in? Talk." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Quentin followed the man into the bar, gaping. He hadn't actually thought about the nebulous 'what comes next' of this situation. Fuck, he really should have seen if he could learn anything about initiation rites, or hierarchies, or really, anything beyond the symbol on the door. "I-um, well, I want to learn magic?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Obviously. But I need more than that kid. What sort of spells, what you've got to trade, hell, which safe house you're from-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Oh, I'm- wait so that's what they're called? I've been going with covens this whole time, but yeah, safe house is better, way less archaic. But, no, I'm not actually with any safe house? I was kind of hoping to join one?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The man, who he really fucking hoped was in charge, narrowed his dark eyes at Quentin, and the already cozy space of the bar suddenly felt so much smaller. The room already felt wrong; not quite a liminal space, but he was acutely aware that the warm woods and bricks, the emerald walls and golden bottles were not meant to be viewed in bright mid-morning light. Paired with the incredulous look the still unnamed man was giving him, the entire affair was a bit unsettling. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The man gave him a once over, then exhaled. "Let me make sure I'm understanding this. You're just coming up to random safe houses, trying to join? What, did you get kicked out of your last one?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Well, actually, yours is the first one I've gone to. I found the address last night, are there others in the city? I don't actually know how widespread this is." Quentin knew he was out of his element, and had wasted all his bravado on a card trick and an introduction. Still, small and insignificant was a feeling he was well accustomed to. The feeling he had right now was so much worse. It was hiding in the middle school library during lunch, pining for Julia while her relationship with James was just blossoming, and that one time he overslept and had to go to his lecture on warrior poets in his pajamas all in one. Quentin was seconds away from tucking his tail between his legs, muttering an apology too soft to properly hear, and returning to Google to find a new lead. Then, his appraiser laughed. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Okay kid, you've got nerve. You're an idiot, but you've got nerve. Let's talk." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And so Quentin found himself pulled aside and tucked into a cramped booth in a closed Irish pub, discussing the logistics of an apparently fairly complex society with Matt, a level 35 Hedge Witch and the head of the McNaughton's safe house. He was also the owner of this esteemed establishment, but the bar was just a front for trading magic. They discussed the purpose of the safe house, Hedge levels, and the struggle of finding spells that actually worked. He asked how long Quentin had been casting. After checking his phone, he concluded it had been "um, about...thirty-six hours?". Matt had seemed marginally impressed by that. He was less impressed when he learned that Quentin had found the safe house after a twenty-four hour Google deep dive, but fortunately his disappointment was with whoever had posted the poorly coded Yelp review that brought him here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Perhaps the most important thing they talked about was how Quentin came to learn he could cast. Initiation was apparently a big deal to the Hedge community, with most Safe Houses tailing individuals they thought had the Spark, and testing them in sometimes subtle, sometimes draconian fashion. His own story was pretty dull in hindsight, a few drinks and doing a magic trick he didn't even notice, though it did capture Matt's interest. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Wait, you were with a friend, and he showed you those spells?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Yeah? Why?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "That's...shit kid, that might be a problem" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I really don't see how." Quentin was also slightly annoyed by being referred to as a kid again, but wasn't willing to push his luck, especially since Matt was actually really informative, once you got past his prickly exterior. Plus, he came across as one of those guys who called everyone under thirty 'kid' so Quentin would just deal with it. The guy in question exhaled in slight exasperation, or perhaps frustration. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "Yeah of course you don't, you're greener than this fucking bar." He stopped to take a breath, and muttered something under his breath about wishing he had painted the room a less cliche color. "Okay, what </em> exactly <em> did your friend say about this?" </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "He, um, he said not to do anything stupid?" Quentin blinked. He could feel himself beginning to ramble with the precision of a strike missile and all the feeble power of a human to stop it. "And I'm pretty sure I haven't, I mean, I found instructions for some dangerous shit last night and haven't tried any of it, and he said he could show me more, he just needed to check on some things first, so-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Alright, that tracks. It sounds like your friend is probably checking with his coven about bringing you in. Did he leave any clues as to who he might be with?" Matt interrupted him without any fanfare, and Quentin awkwardly set his hands down. He shook his head, and Matt sighed. "That's fair. There aren't many Safe Houses in the city bigger than ours, but they're out there, and if one of them has their eyes on you, I can't risk poaching their recruit." </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "Wait, so you're kicking me out?" Had he already fucked up that badly? Sure, the start of any story was never easy, but there was no telling how long it would take Eliot to get back to him, and he needed to learn more spells </em> now <em> . He needed this like he needed air. Maybe he could find another safe house in the meantime, one less concerned with 'poaching recruits' like he was subject of some trophy hunt worth putting on display. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Yeah, I am. I could pledge you now, but honestly, card tricks aren't worth risking a turf war over." Matt continued. Oh. Or he could be sent packing for being so utterly unremarkable, that made more sense. "Wait to hear from your friend, and if their boss isn't interested in bringing in fresh blood, you can come back here." </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> So he was on standby. It was a familiar position to Quentin, bringing back memories of the ill-fated summer his dad put him in little league. He had been so proud to take his little man to practices, to go shopping for bats and gloves and all things classic male Americana, but Quentin sucked at baseball. Or at least, he hated it too much to ever try not sucking, even at nine. The dugout became his private clubhouse, the bench the only friend he made that June, and he was happy that way. Once the first game of the summer came, he succeeded in spending all six innings hiding in the dugout with a copy of The Chamber of Secrets. It was a perfect day, filled with magic and mystery and the pretense of getting some fresh air. Then he saw his dad's face. All kind smiles and gentle disappointment, a piss poor attempt to hide that he hadn't gotten to cheer his son on for hitting a freaking ball. Quentin thought it was stupid even then, but shame crept in nonetheless. The next week, he actually tried. He tried to talk to the other boys during practice, he missed that stupid ball more times than he could count, he ran in circles and skinned his knees and hated every fucking second of it, but he </em> tried <em> . </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> In the end it didn't matter. The next game came and went, and he was never called from the bench. The precedent had been set, and it didn't matter what Quentin did from then on out, he would remain on standby. His dad pulled him from the league two weeks later. Quentin's mood soured further at the memory, at the realization that his relationship with his Dad was mostly a long series of taking turns disappointing one another. This time would be different, he swore it.. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Whatever passed over his face was apparently noteworthy enough that Matt’s face softened in response. "Tell you what though, I won't bring you in while shit's still in the air, but I can at least get a few doors open for you in the meantime.") </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Quentin left that meeting with a seven pointed star and keyhole tattooed on his forearm, a promise that it would get him into most hedge bars, no questions asked, and an unrelenting pang of guilt. But, he also left with an access code, and a place to go if everything went to hell in his bright and shiny enchanted hand basket. Coincidentally, the witch at the booth he had just passed, a frazzled, middle aged woman wearing an abundance of scarves who probably had access to an army's worth of stray cats, was selling enchanted handbaskets, with a claim that their charm was strong enough to make carrying up to five hundred pounds as simple as carrying fifteen. The witch currently eyeing said baskets, a sharp eyed young woman with big hair and an even bigger 'piss-off’ attitude was tearing her spellwork apart with a frankly disturbing level of aggression. Quentin couldn't decide whether to make a mental note to avoid her at all costs, or bring her into the fray of finding the belt in question. She snarled at the older woman, and Quentin decided on the former.</p><p> </p><p>The thing that surprised Quentin the most about the magical underbelly of New York was how it could be so vast, yet so intimate all at once. Sure, new faces showed up all the time, case and point. Also, the big haired woman with the big dick energy was unfamiliar, and come to think of it, the hand basket woman was new too. He'd only been here two weeks, of course he wouldn't recognize everyone, but even two weeks was long enough to spot patterns. Who frequented which bars and clubs, who traded at which black markets and when (there were seven, <em> seven </em>, in Queens, and another three in Brooklyn. How did no one notice this stuff, how had he not noticed this stuff?), and who had a reputation for being able to get their hands on what. Obviously he didn't have names, or contacts, or a clue what he was doing, but at least he had a good memory for faces. He turned down another stretch of booths, half hoping to see one in particular, and half hoping to never see him again.</p><p> </p><p><em> (Quentin saw Eliot again on a Tuesday. It was a Tuesday following a whirlwind weekend of learning, and he could not stress this enough, that </em> magic. Was. Real <em> ., finding an honest to God coven, and rushing to New Jersey as soon as possible to see his dad. He’d only been able to stay for a day and a half, but it was more time together than they’d had for months, and it was strangely pleasant. He had wanted to push about treatment options, doctor’s notes, when his next appointment was, and had started to, but- his Dad just looked exhausted. Quentin could rage later, could throw himself into the abyss trying to fix this on his own time. He could save Ted, but he couldn’t tell him what he had planned; not yet. Not till he knew he could do this. For now, Quentin would have to bear this on his own. A small price for magic, really. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> His tattoo was almost fully healed, courtesy of a salve recipe he'd learned from a fellow patron at the Hedge bar he'd been at the night before. After learning about the joys of magically infused drinks' he'd never be able to enjoy regular bars again. The experience had been, for lack of a better word and unwillingness to give up a perfectly good pun, </em> spellbinding <em> . Quentin still couldn't tell how much of his excitement was a lingering effect from an incredible cocktail that made you feel like you were floating, and how much was excitement about something as mundane as spending an afternoon with Eliot. Though, if more magic was going to be involved, mundane probably wasn't the appropriate word. Whatever, he could worry about choosing the exact right word when he was less giddy. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> And so, Quentin found himself on a path at the southeast corner of Central Park. It was far from where he would have picked to meet up, he probably would have just opted for staying at the loft, but Eliot had insisted. His argument had been two-fold, part one being that 'Central park was huge and no one would pay any attention to what they were doing', and part two being </em> 'it's a beautiful summer day, and an Adonis such as myself should either be in the sun where all can observe, preferably wearing as little clothing as I can get away with'. <em> Quentin hadn't had the heart, nor the willpower, to argue with either point. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He checked his phone again, fully aware that the time on the screen held no bearing regarding when Eliot would actually show up, but old habits died hard and it was nice for something to want to stick around. He scrolled back through their conversation; </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: Saturday 8:48 PM - Im at my dads ths wknd but im rlly lookng forwrd to seeing u whn i get bck </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Eliot W.: Monday 12:30 PM - How does Central Park work for you? Tomorrow? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: Monday 12:44 PM - dnt u evr hve class </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Eliot W.: Monday 12:47 PM - Technically, yes. I'll go when they have something meaningful to cover. So, tomorrow? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Q: Monday 12:59 PM - tmrow wrks </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Q: Monday 1:03 PM - ill see u thn :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Eliot had called him later that day to hash out the exact details of where and when they would meet. Or, more exactly, Eliot had said where and when they should arrive and Quentin had gone along with whatever he suggested. He hadn't known Eliot long, but had come to expect a certain lightness in his voice, a general sense of being above everything else. But when they had talked, he seemed off. Not significantly, he was still casual enough to call himself a freaking Adonis without a hint of irony, but there was an unmistakable stiffness to his words. The sort of tension that only just bled out from the edges of his words, so slowly you questioned if it was really there or just your phone making things sound strange. But, Quentin was used to overthinking things, and brushed the thought off. Their plans were made, and within the next ten minutes, Eliot would come walking down the trail, probably wearing something incredibly impractical like a velvet waistcoat and complaining that the weather hadn't bent itself to his whims. He laughed to himself at the thought. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When Eliot did make his appearance several minutes later, it seemed as though he brought the sun with him. In reality, Quentin knew it was just a convenient cloud moving out of the sun at just the right moment, but all he could process was the sky opening and gold light pouring around the man who had the nerve to saunter into his life, completely uninvited and painfully welcome. He arrived more appropriately dressed than Quentin had anticipated, in light pants that he would have called khaki but Eliot probably would have called camel twill, or something that would have made sense if he knew anything about clothes, and a mustard vest over a white button up. The color would have looked completely ridiculous on him, there was a reason Quentin rarely wore anything but dark blue or grey, but Eliot wore the color like it was made for him. There was a stiffness in his step, likely due to the heat, but once he saw Quentin at the end of the path his smile was unmistakably relaxed. Quentin waved, and strangely didn't feel awkward about it thirty seconds later.  It was nice, feeling like he could be excited about things around someone. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He stepped towards Eliot, turning his head to make sure they were actually alone. "Are you sure Central Park in the middle of the afternoon is really a good place to talk about, um, magic?" He whispered the last word, despite their isolation. Eliot chuckled, and reached forward to brush Quentin's hair behind his ear, and for a split second he forgot how to breathe. Fortunately, Quentin was saved from the humiliation of leaning into the touch by Eliot pulling his hand back somewhat suddenly. Unfortunately, Eliot had pulled his hand back rather suddenly. He cleared his throat. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "It's definitely fine. Most people will assume we're talking about Penn and Teller stuff, or that one card game, what's it called-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Magic?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "No that's definitely not it, far too unimaginative." Eliot retorted with a wave of his hand. Quentin rolled his eyes, unsure if El was fucking with him, or really didn't know. "Regardless, it's perfectly safe. No one is here to overhear us, and  anyone who does will make one of three assumptions; either you're discussing something wholly mundane and they misheard you, you're crazy and they need to stay away from you, or they're in on it, in which case it doesn’t matter if they listen. You'd be surprised just how often door number three is the answer, but most people don't care enough to question things much." </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> He trailed behind his friend, stumbling slightly to keep up. It really wasn't fair, Eliot wasn't that much taller than him, but he had </em> stupidly <em> long legs. Quentin wanted to argue with him about the observation skills of people as a whole, but it was a valid point. Especially given his own tendency to not notice the obvious. "Yeah, that-um, that makes sense. I keep forgetting most people don't care about this stuff, and like, I literally spent my whole childhood wishing it was real, and still never noticed? So-um-If I gave up on it, then yeah why would anyone else look." </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It was a statement, not a question, and possibly an admission of just how pathetic he was. Not that Quentin hadn't had ample opportunities to look as out of his depth as possible around Eliot, but he was here and he was ready to dig. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I mean, I didn't like, actually look or anything, that would-um, that would be weird. But you know, you grow up reading about magical worlds, at some point or another you're gonna wish for them to be real." As he spoke, Quentin's hands shifted back and forth, a physical manifestation of his attempts to mentally organize his thoughts. He was used to people viewing his need to talk with his hands as something to fix, or at best, begrudgingly tolerate. He'd once stopped speaking to his mother for a week after a particularly snide comment about the habit, but the look Eliot gave him when he talked was almost fond. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Hmm, I wouldn't know. Wasn't much of a reader growing up. Oh, don't give me that look I know you're not actually surprised." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I wasn't giving you a look." He lied. Eliot not being a big reader definitely wasn't a surprise, Quentin was well accustomed to around non-bookworms. Growing up, Julia had been the one person who got it. But still, having his mental image of a tiny, strangely dressed Eliot hiding in the private quarters of his family's country club devouring any children's fantasy book with a dragon on the cover crushed was inherently disappointing. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Maybe, but you were definitely thinking it." Eliot laughed. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "I wasn't- I mean- okay fine,  maybe I was." Quentin could feel himself getting flustered, again. "I just don't really get it? Sure, I'm not exactly an impartial judge here, I wrote a thesis paper on the hero's journey and post World War Two children's literature, but come on, even </em> you <em> must have wanted to go to Fillory! And don't tell me you were a Narnia kid, I can't handle our friendship ending so soon." </em></p><p> </p><p><em> "Hah, no, no Narnia for me." Eliot carried on, light and unaffected. If there was one thing he appreciated most about the man, it was his ability to let Quentin ramble through a conversation without making him feel like he was bogging the discussion down, but still like he was being heard. It was pretty apparent, even to someone as generally unobservant as himself, that for all that Eliot pretended not to care, he felt a great deal, and showing it sparingly was an active choice. "The thought of a fantasy world in the back of a closet was always too on the nose for me. Though, there </em> is <em> something strangely enticing about the idea of James McAvoy as a satyr." He finished with a nudge against Quentin's shoulder, quite pleased with himself as though it wasn't a given fact that everyone was at least a little into Mr. Tumnus. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I'm pretty sure he was a fawn" Quentin deadpanned, shoving back into Eliot's shoulder. Or, bicep, as his height would allow. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I'm pretty sure you're nitpicking." He chuckled, a half whisper spoken right in his ear, soft and gentle and just slightly teasing. Quentin's breath hitched, not that he would admit it, and Eliot pulled away. "Anyways, this must be a nice place for you then." </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "Hm?" Quentin could barely remember his own phone number, let alone what they had been talking about. All he could focus on was the low rumble of Eliot's voice and his brain helpfully screaming at him to </em> stop crushing on people who were completely out of his league <em> . </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Central Park," Eliot carried on, as though that meant anything to him right now. "I can picture you here now with your tabletop group, running amok and pretending you're in middle earth fighting Nazi's or something" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His brain had been running on low function, but in that moment it completely shorted out. Though this time, at least indignant nerd rage was to blame. "That's-What? No, I'm not sure anything you just said was even remotely- there aren't Nazi's in Lord of the Rings!." He sputtered in stops and starts, and could feel his face growing flushed with frustration. Great. Eliot grinned, wolf-like and oh that smug motherfucker. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Really? I could have sworn the villains were just shallow stand-ins for-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Yeah that's Harry Potter." He interrupted. And like a grown-ass man, he did not pout. Much. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Same difference." It wasn't, and he clearly knew it. "But no, Central Park always felt like a different world to me, an escape from the city. Not that I ever needed an escape from the Big Apple, mind you. NYC was escape enough, but, the quiet is nice sometimes." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It was hard to imagine Eliot enjoying the quiet. He seemed so at ease when in the center of a crowd, or at just the center of one person's attention, than Quentin ever had even surrounded by the comfort of his personal library. Were he less annoyed, he might have tried to picture it. As things were, he opted to grumble at Eliot instead. "Eh, It always felt too touristy to me." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Quentin Coldwater you take that back!" Eliot stepped back, placing a hand atop his vest in what was probably mock indignation, but he was dramatic enough that it could be very real. There was a thin line between the two, and Eliot was a master tightrope walker. Quentin grinned, satisfied to get a rise out of him. At least two could play at this game. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Make me." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And oh, if Eliot's grin had been wolfish before, it was downright predatory now. Quentin couldn't tell what dropped first, his smile or the fresh pit in his stomach. Fuck, he couldn't help but think, if that was how El looked at someone when he was just teasing, what was it like when he meant it? "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How long was an appropriate length of time to stare at someone while gaping like a fish? Whatever it was, it had definitely passed, and Quentin's face felt no less hot than it was before. He tore his eyes from Eliot's and cleared his throat, desperate to change the subject.  "So, the city was your escape? That's, huh. I kind of assumed you'd always been a part of it." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He dared a glance back at Eliot. There was a weight to his expression that wasn't there before, a heaviness to the set in his shoulders. "Thank you." He spoke, somehow soft and deliberate. There was a story to be told there, but a sharpness that said 'not now'. That was fine, Quentin could wait. </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> They continued down the path, towards a clearing with a supposedly exquisite view of the Gapstow Bridge in much the same fashion. Dancing just on the edge of a serious discussion, Quentin eager to get to whatever was next in the world of magic, but for now, just as happy to spend time with a friend.  The path eventually opened to a small clearing, resting just on the edge of the pond and its reed covered banks, framing the old stone bridge before the Manhattan skyline. Eliot no doubt suggested coming here for the sheer drama of the place, and there was no denying it was a spectacular view. It was surprising that the clearing wasn't covered with people. Sure, it was the start of the work week, but it was still summer. This place should have been crawling with families on vacation, or students on break. He wondered if Eliot had placed some sort of spell over this area to keep anyone from taking the spot he had deemed his, if such a spell even existed. Neither would surprise him at this point. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> With a flourish and a few poppers, one of which he recognized, Eliot summoned a pair of blankets and floated them into place on the lawn. He dropped onto the ground with a level of elegance and grace that Quentin couldn't have copied even in his best dreams, the kind where he was a space pirate and somehow having sex with with Xena </em> and <em> Spock. Dreams were weird like that. Regardless, sexually charged space pirate he was not, so he didn't even try. He flopped onto the ground besides Eliot, and only needed to shift his foot out from under himself twice. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> While Quentin moved himself into the position of something resembling a functioning adult human, Eliot leaned back, letting the sun wash over him. He took a deep breath, one that Quentin could have mistaken for one of the dozen or so grounding techniques various therapists had tried with him over the years, if Eliot weren't so put together that he obviously wouldn't need them. He exhaled, smoothed his hands over his vest, and turned his attention to Quentin, his eyes sharp and focused. "So, I'm pretty sure I promised I would show you some more spells?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Yeah, um, after you checked on something?" Quentin ran a hand through his hair. Fuck, did he regret not bringing a hair tie. "How- how did that go?" There was no use getting over eager, Quentin reminded himself. He didn't even know for sure what Eliot had been checking on, but if there was a chance that it was related to whatever safe house he was a part of, that was worth being a bit excited over, right? Sure, it was nice having a back up plan in mind, but given his choice, he would rather learn with El. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Eliot's easy smile didn't drop, but it didn't reach his eyes anymore either. "Fine, I suppose." He broke eye contact first, a first since Quentin had known him. "I'd actually rather not talk about it." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Oh. Okay." Unlike his friend, his smile did drop, as the only time he was capable of maintaining a poker face was when cards were actually involved. Eliot hadn't actually said anything, true, but he'd said enough. Despite his best efforts, which admittedly, weren't great, he could feel the hurt flash across his face. Watching Eliot wince in response didn't make him feel any better. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Q, I'm sorry, it's not about you, I promise." </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p><em> "Yeah, totally, it's fine." He lied. He wanted to believe Eliot, and </em> hell <em> , with his own penchant for assuming the worst at all times, odds were this really </em> wasn't <em> about him. It was fine, he could just ask later. "So- so what did you want to show me? I mean, assuming you still want to, I don't want to just-I mean- you know-" </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Quentin. Breathe, it's alright." Eliot retook the reins of their conversation, his relaxed composure back in place. He leaned forward and placed a hand over Quentin's own, unintentionally grounding him. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to. Although today is probably going to be a bit boring, I figured we should discuss theory. Poppers, circumstances, how not to singe off those bushy little eyebrows of yours." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "My eyebrows aren't bushy." Quentin grumbled. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Ah, denial, thy name is Coldwater. Anyways, are you ready for some boring theoretical nonsense?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "How can you call anything about magic boring?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> El rolled his eyes, because apparently that constituted an answer. "Sweet Jesus you really are a nerd." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Quentin shifted back. He was still disappointed, sure. No one liked not knowing what their friends were up to, especially not when it possibly involved them, but those thoughts were much easier to ignore when the promise of reshaping the universe was at your fingertips. Eliot stretched his hands out, and Quentin wondered if he should have learned some hand exercises over the weekend. He didn't mull over the thought for long though, since El decided to be a human distraction and roll his sleeves up, and fuck, how were even his freaking forearms attractive? They were lean, and strong, and- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Bare. They were completely bare. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Hey, how come you don't have any stars?" He asked absently. Eliot froze, and Quentin understood how it felt to be lost in the vacuum of space. Cold, silent, the air completely still and his heart pounding. A spell had been cast over the two of them, and Quentin unaware of what had caused it or how to break it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "...I'm sorry, </em> what <em> ?" He finally spoke, and Quentin's mind circled, a recurring loop of ' </em> what did I do wrong- where are his tattoos - what did I do- <em> ?'. His mind was spinning, so he did what he did best when overwhelmed; he rambled. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Oh, um, okay so after you left last week I did some research of my own, and you know, fell down a Google rabbit hole, and did you know there are a lot of junk spells online? Like, so many junk spells, and a bunch of scam artists selling supposedly enchanted amulets, like, god damn it was sketchy. They wanted payment in blood? Weird stuff. But anyways, I-well, I found a safe house in Queens? The guy who runs it is pretty cool by the way, gave me a crash course on how all this works. And well, I kind of hoped you were going to invite me to join your safe house, but, um, you said-never mind, it doesn't matter. It's just, you don't have any stars. Why?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Quentin's hair was out of his face, having been pulled back in a fist, but his focus remained on the grass. The blades offered no more insight into what had turned Eliot's mood so suddenly than the man himself did.   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Q, tell me you're joking." He finally spoke, his voice tense and cold. On another man, it might have sounded desperate. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He balked. "What? Why would I- How would I make that up?" Finally, he looked up, and turned to glare at Eliot. What was his fucking problem, and why couldn't he just come out and say it? He knew full well that Quentin had only just learned any of this existed, so where the fuck did he get off asking him if he was joking, what would he even know to joke about?  "Look, I don't get what the problem is. If it's such a big deal why didn't you say something?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Eliot stood, angry and still stupidly graceful and now it was just pissing him off. "I said not to do anything stupid!" Quentin seethed, because apparently a general vague warning was supposed to be some </em> huge insight <em> into the gospel of Eliot Waugh. Yeah. Sure. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Right, like setting my apartment on fire or blowing myself up, not doing research! You don't get to be pissed because I took some initiative. Also, It's not like I joined them or anything, I just asked some questions." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Yeah, while slumming it with hedges! God damn it!" </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "I'm sorry, what?" He stood up, staring Eliot down as best he could from his height. "What's your fucking deal Eliot? </em> <em> " </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "My problem is that they're sad and desperate D-leaguers and you're better than that. What the hell were you thinking?" Quentin blinked. He was still mad, that wasn't going anywhere, but for the first time since he'd met him, Eliot looked disheveled. The desperation in his voice wasn't imagined, it was a distinct whine, and any tension in his body was gone, replaced with visible exhaustion. Quentin reeled back a bit. He could want to scream at someone over lack of explanation, and still not actually want to fight them. Relationships were weird like that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I feel like there's a lot more we need to unpack here than what I was thinking." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "That's fair, since I'm pretty sure you weren't." He spat back, all venom. Fine, if that was how he wanted to play it- </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "The fuck? Why are you being such a massive dick? </em> <em> " </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Eliot laughed, and the sound actually hurt. His stress had bled over the edge moments ago, but now it was openly audible. He looked towards the city, and Quentin couldn't tell if he was centering himself or just avoiding looking at him. Quentin watched, fists clenched, as he swore under his breath. Had Eliot been biting his lip? It looked almost as raw as he sounded. "I-Look, the people who taught me are pretty exclusive, alright? And if they find out I'm associated with a hedge-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "How many times do I have to tell you, I didn't join them yet!" Now he was practically screaming. God, had Eliot listened to a single word he'd said? He needed a starting point, he did some research, he- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Did you get a mark?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I-"  he paused. They were only a few feet apart but Quentin could feel that distance growing. The look in Eliot's eyes, it wasn't anger, it wasn't even disdain. He was afraid of something, and, though Quentin didn't want to acknowledge it, he was sad. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Did you?" Eliot repeated, softer. Quentin wasn't sure why. They both knew the answer. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "It...it was just to get me in the door, help me get access to some trading spaces. It doesn't mean anything." He practically whispered, pleading. Eliot shrugged, looking as lost as Quentin felt. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "That really depends on who you ask. Part of a coven or not, you're with them. It's a done deal." He turned, and- and he was just going to walk away. Without resolving anything, without even a vague hint as to what the problem with being a hedge was? Was there even a problem, or was Eliot just learning magic from some elitist jackasses who thought they were above everyone? He wasn't walking away from this yet this </em> wasn't over <em> . </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "So that's it then?" Quentin yelled behind him, "If they find out you're associated with a sad desperate hedge, then what?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He looked back for a second, not breaking his stride. "Lucky enough, you don't need to worry about that, since I'm not." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. Fuck, this was actually happening. Quentin stepped forward, panic seizing in his throat. He couldn't do this on his own. It wasn't just about magic though, it might be harder to start from scratch but he could learn that elsewhere. But, he'd been losing Julia since she started things at her new program, and his relationship with James had been strained since, and he didn't have anyone else he could turn to. He'd already lost two friends, he couldn't lose Eliot too, not this soon. "Eliot? Eliot, come on, you can't just leave-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I can, and I have to." He interrupted. At least this time he stopped, turning to fully face Quentin. For a man who's posture looked so tall, so proud, his face was one that seemed to hate the choice he was making. He wanted to let him drown in it, he wanted to punch him for not challenging the choice himself, he wanted to hold him and beg him to explain what the fuck was going on. He went with column D, and didn't move. Eliot finally continued "For what it's worth...I am sorry. Goodbye, Quentin." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And that was that.) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Quentin had stood in that clearing for twenty minutes after. He wanted to scream, and he wanted to crawl in a hole and pretend he didn’t exist. It was impossible for him to decide who he was angriest with; the universe, Eliot, or himself.</p><p> </p><p>Still, the deed was done. That afternoon he joined McNaughton's safe house, and had proceeded to spend every day since in their back room, pouring through introductory spells and practicing with other hedges. When he wasn’t on site, he was trading what he could and helping with simple cooperative spells at underground sites across the city or running errands for the coven. If he kept busy enough, buried himself under a thick enough layer of errands to run and pages to read, he could almost ignore the gnawing in his chest, the repetition of <em> ‘You fucked up, you fucked up, good god do you even know what you’re doing? You fucked up- </em> ’. It was near constant, and it was an unwelcome distraction from more pressing matters; making contacts, developing a foundation for magic, finding some god forsaken healing spells, figuring out what the <em> actual fuck </em> had crawled up Eliot’s ass and- no, not that last one. Tempting as it was to call Eliot, to scream and demand an explanation, his attention needed to be on something he could actually fix. He could help his dad, he couldn’t get answers from someone who clearly didn’t want to see him again. Quentin needed to focus. Hence, the market.</p><p> </p><p>Despite the constant bustle, the almost overwhelming abundance of bright and bizzare and <em> new </em>, it was a surprisingly good environment for focusing. There was almost always a deal to be made, a hidden meaning to someone’s words, and Quentin had already learned the price of accepting people’s words at face value the hard way. Last week, when he had been asked to find the leaves of a specific strain of rhodiola for a small cooperative ritual, he ended up coming back with dried succulent clippings and had been none the wiser. True, the entire thing had been an exercise in critical thinking, and Matt had sent him out with the intention of Quentin failing, but it had still been pretty embarrassing. </p><p> </p><p>He passed by a man trading what he claimed to be rare ores and minerals, and a group of hedges, wide eyed and younger than himself and clinging to his every word. Poor bastards, even Quentin wasn’t naive enough to think that chunk of ‘moon rock’ was real. Places like this were incredible sources of learning and trade; just last week, he’d met a witch from Portland who had showed him how to make his messenger bag bigger on the inside in exchange for putting her in touch with a local psychic who specialized in memory spells, but there was also always someone ready to take advantage of a situation.</p><p> </p><p>Speaking of possibly being taken advantage of, he thought while crossing by a mother-daughter team who dealt in herbs and poultices, and the best weed the East coast had to offer, he realized he should probably check if Clarissa was here. He had met the waifish, wisp of a woman just a couple days after his ill-fated visit to Central Park. She was a curious figure, deathly pale and all hard angles, but she had a reputation for being an incredible source of information, for a cost. She also had an incredible talent for riddles, Quentin had learned. While she wasn’t a healer herself, she did have a contact in Florida, who might be willing to send some of his books her way, and she had offered to lend them to him. Also, it was worth noting that Quentin didn’t believe her to actually be human, given that her price for the trade would be his only baby tooth, a cost she had stated with a literal glow in her eyes. So yeah. Human? Probably not. Helpful? Definitely. Was he going to get immensely screwed over by this deal? Jury was still out.</p><p> </p><p>Finding the woman in question didn’t take long. Clarissa didn’t have any wares in any particular market, she preferred to amble through spaces unattached, but if one sought her she had a strange habit of appearing. At least this time she was tucked within the aisles of the warehouse, and not perched on the rafters again. However, Quentin found that he was not the first to seek her out, and if the look of the woman currently speaking to her was anything to go by, he was far from the most desperate.</p><p> </p><p>“-Please, there must be something! Any information you might have- has there been a shift in circumstances, a celestial alignment I might have missed? Bloody hell, can you at least tell me if there’s a traveler in this Gods abandoned city?” She was wild haired and wild eyed, and spoke in a sharp, clipped British accent. Clarissa stared her down with an otherworldly gaze, one that held more power than any mere stare should, and further solidified Quentin’s theory that she was definitely human. Maybe she was a faerie, were the fae an actual thing?</p><p> </p><p>“You seek word of change, yet speak so few yourself. It does you little good though, I know who you are. You, who should know better than to question movements you cannot see. You come across a locked door, and presume you must have a hidden key. Is it so hard to imagine it may be your turn?”</p><p> </p><p>The woman balked at Clarissa, paling noticeably. Her red curls were pulled back at one point, but had clearly come loose during the day, and was as wild and frantic as the look in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I want to know is can you help me or not.” The woman replied, deliberate but clearly on edge. Clarissa’s eyes sharpened, measuring the foreigner and weighing her as most unimpressive. Quentin could only assume that she was an experienced caster, probably one just visiting, possibly with an extremely bad reputation. He’d never heard of her being so cold with <em> actual </em>newcomers. However, he could feel the tension growing between the two, and assumed that, no, the frantic newcomer would not be getting any help, so he decided to do what he did best; jump in the middle of the situation and change the subject. Red clearly wasn’t getting anywhere anyway.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Clarissa, how are you? Hate to interrupt, but have you heard anything back from that guy?” He interjected, pushing by the new woman. He noted as he passed her that her cloak was wool; who the hell wore wool in the city in the middle of the freaking summer? The possible-faerie softened, and smiled at him. “Rare amongst both children and men, those who have it claim time is their friend, Easily confused with its cousin sloth, You must find it within before all is lost.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin chuckled, unsurprised by the change in direction. “Alright, patience, got it. I do appreciate your help, thanks.” She nodded, the glimmer in her eye a reminder that her help was never free, and walked away without a second glance at the woman who really should have passed out from heat exhaustion already. The frantic redhead swore under her breath, then spun around to face Quentin.</p><p> </p><p>“Bloody lot of good you did, thank you.” She spat, and while Quentin realized the situation was possibly quite serious, he had to bite back a laugh at the thought that she reminded him of a very angry Mary Poppins.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, you weren’t going to get any help from Clarissa anyways. I don’t know what you said, but she’s known for being pretty nice, so you clearly pissed her off.” He held his hands up defensively, and took a step back. His defensiveness was for naught though, as the woman before him seemed to shrink. Her shoulders dropped, and the heat in her expression lost all steam.</p><p> </p><p>“I...It’s a fair bit more complicated than that.” She sighed, and bit her lip. Her expression made Quentin imagine what he must have looked like on his first visit to a place like this; desperate and wide eyed and hoping that at least one answer would come with some semblance of ease. However, she also held a weariness that said she knew that wouldn’t ever be the case. “Perhaps you could help me then?” </p><p> </p><p>Quentin paled. “Oh, um, probably not, I’m actually really new here, I’ve literally only been casting for like, two weeks, so-” He took another step back, hoping to remove himself from this conversation as quickly as possible. The wild haired woman stepped forward to follow him, interrupting. “That’s quite alright, truly! Please, can you tell me if you’ve noticed anything strange about lately? Doors where there shouldn’t be any, changes in casting circumstances, perhaps an influx of rabbits in the city?” She smiled, a sad, forced grimace of a thing. Whatever shit she was involved in was clearly worse than he cared to imagine, if she was desperate enough to talk to even him.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin stammered for a moment. “I-um, well, yeah, like I said, I’m new, everything is pretty strange to me. I’m literally planning on trading teeth for the change to look at a book, nothing makes sense anymore. But, well, no nothing like that. Also  I don’t even know where you would find rabbits in the city? I’m pretty sure we have coyotes so like, they probably wouldn’t last long anyways, but you probably don’t care about that, but, um, yeah. Lots of strange things, but, nothing like that.” Her face somehow managed to fall further.</p><p> </p><p>“I see. Well, thank you anyways.’ And with a curt not, she was off. Quentin considered dwelling on the conversation, but if he was being honest, it was far from the strangest conversation he had engaged in this week. Top five definitely, but not the strangest. He sighed, and continued moving throughout the warehouse. That belt wasn’t going to find itself.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The best part about being in a safe house that fronted as a pub, was that it was always easy to wind down after a long day. Quentin had spent another three hours at the warehouse that afternoon, trying his hand at a red-paperclip style trade up, only to fuck up halfway through the exchange and give up a bell that alerted homeowners to the presence or ghosts for what he <em> thought </em> was raw moonstone, but turned out to be a chunk of quartz. On the upside, his kicked puppy face when he realized his mistake was somehow effective enough that of all people, the woman he had watched earlier tearing apart shoddy hand baskets had pulled him aside. With a <em> ‘God damn, watching you has been really depressing, you pathetic sad sack. I’ll just teach you the fucking spell, but you owe me, got that?’ </em> , and a quick walk through, who knew that gravity belts were embarrassingly easy to make, Quentin left with new casting knowledge, and a new debt to a witch simply introduced as <em> ‘Kady. Now shut up and pay attention.` </em> After testing the spell in the back room, and some time fucking around because <em> holy shit he was fucking floating </em>, the coven decided to settle in their preffered corner of the bar with a few pints. Well, the half of them that were there, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Theirs was a small coven, with maybe two dozen members. Quentin would have assumed that being part of an intimate group, tied together by such an incredible secret would have led to an overwhelming kinship with his fellow hedges, or at least a basic level of camaraderie, but that hadn't been the case. Sure, he liked everyone well enough, but that was it. At least, for once, his own moods and single-mindedness hadn't been the only cause of the lack of connection. Hedge society wasn't like high school, where everyone was your age and shared your social problems and you were desperate to fit in no matter the costs. Here, structure was what you made of it. Quentin may have chosen to spend as much time as possible studying in the back room of their safe house, but he was new, he had a lot of basics to learn. Thomas seemed to spend the second most amount of time on site, behind Matt, but even then he spent as much time at McNaughton's grading math tests as he did brushing up on hand exercises. Trevor was the closest to him in age, but other than a generational similarity and a preference for IPAs, they had nothing in common. The last time they had been in close proximity, Quentin had to bite his tongue to avoid the inevitable tirade of<em> 'Of course Trevor, I'm definitely interested in your fantasy football draft choices. Please, enlighten me to the merits of the Seahawks over the Vikings, or however the hell this works. I definitely understand sports, can't you tell?' </em>. Sarah was nice, but she was a single mom, and according to her magic was 'pretty low on the list of priorities'. Quentin didn't get it, but he wasn't a parent, so why would he? And the list went on. At this point, he still had yet to meet about half of their group, but he wasn't holding his breath. Magic or no magic, he doubted he would connect with anyone here as quickly as he had connected with-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. He was not thinking about Eliot right now. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Why waste time on that full-of-himself shit when he could think about how today he had flown? How today he had learned a fantastic new spell, and made an acquaintance with a terrifying no-bullshit sort of woman, and learned of a possible secret plot involving an invading army of rabbits, and was sitting in a cozy Irish pub drinking free beer? Today had been incredible, he had accomplished something, and he sure as hell didn't need Eliot, even if he was the person who showed him magic was real. Even if he was the first person to seem to actually want to be friends with him since...well, since Julia. The six or so established members of the Coven talked among themselves, and Quentin, despite sitting right beside them, knew he was alone.</p><p> </p><p>It had been a slow night at the pub, and Matt had announced last call early. The bar had mostly cleared out, save for their corner. The leader of their operation had been preoccupied for most of the night, tasked with the running of his actual business, but he finally seemed to settle behind the bar for a breather. Seeing a chance to finally speak to him one-on-one, hopefully with some goodwill on his side for getting that spell today, Quentin downed the last of his glass and stood up. The group continued on their conversation, his movement unnoticed.</p><p> </p><p>The bar itself was glassy, and covered in fingerprints and smudges. Matt was gently buffing the marks away, and Quentin absently wondered if there wasn't a more efficient way to clean the counters with magic, or if he simply preferred to take care of his establishment the old fashioned way. He cleared his throat, and Matt looked up. He seemed tired from a long night, but generally in good spirits. The advantage of a night of not having to kick anyone out or break up any bar fights, Quentin supposed.</p><p> </p><p>"Matt, Hey, um-" Quentin slurred slightly. What a great start, his brain helpfully supplied. "Listen, I know I'm still- I'm still new here, and have a lot to catch up on. But, do you have any idea when I'll be ready to try any healing spells you guys have? Can I at least-you know, take a look at them?'</p><p> </p><p>The boss sighed. His hair was falling in his face, the gel no longer doing its job. He smiled, and it was the soft smile that always seemed to accompany disappointment. <em> Santa isn’t real, global warming is an actual problem, and you’re not ready to learn what you really want </em>. The main door continued to open and close behind them, the shuffling out of the last few patrons a fitting soundtrack for this conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen, I know you’re eager, and you’re learning fast. But that stuff is high level, it’s dangerous. You miscast one of those, best case scenario you do nothing, worst case scenario you blow up someone’s lungs. It’s not worth it, not yet.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin scowled. He definitely wasn’t going to argue that magic wasn’t dangerous, but where the fuck did Matt get off talking to him like he was some dumb kid? “Are you being serious right now? Come on, I know I’ve only been here two weeks but right now I am putting <em> way </em> more time in than anyone else. Doesn’t that count for anything? I just need to take a look.”</p><p> </p><p>He stared forward, hoping to impress upon Matt how important this was to him without needing to say the words. For two fucking weeks, he’s managed to avoid speaking it out loud; <em> ‘my dad has cancer’ </em> .  He’d managed to talk about doctor’s visits, try and make at least one helpful contact, and dove headfirst into a decision that cost him his first friend in years, all without breathing why he even cared. The barrier between his troubles existing in a manageable compartment within his mind and overwhelming him to the point of drowning was <em> four fucking words </em>, and he couldn’t risk speaking them, breaking whatever spell they held over him. He tried to impart this knowledge upon the head of their operation without needing to say the words. He probably just looked like a belligerent drunk.</p><p> </p><p>He looked up from the bartop, and opened his mouth, probably with some patronizing words disguised as fatherly advice ready on his tongue; <em> ‘Go home Quentin, drink some water, get some fucking sleep </em>’, and the likes. Whatever condescension he had prepared however, was interrupted by a new voice from over Quentin’s shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>“Ramos, keeping the good stuff from the rookies? Oh wait, that implies you have good stuff on hand. My bad.” Matt’s face soured, better matching Quentin’s mood. He looked over his shoulder to see the source of his sort-of boss’s irritation, and found himself facing an extremely average, blond, beady eyed man in a three piece suit. The part of his brain that was still fixated on Eliot thought that his suit looked like shit,  like he should be scamming people into buying shitty cars than talking shop in a safe house.  Before he could fire off a probably ill advised <em> ‘who the fuck are you?’ </em> at the man, Matt spoke.</p><p> </p><p>“Pete, to what do I owe the... pleasure of your visit?” He seethed. The new guy, apparently Pete, walked closer to the bar as though he owned it, and Quentin could hear Matt’s teeth grinding from here. Pete grinned, either oblivious to the tension between the two, or powerful enough to not care. Sleazy as he was, Quentin suspected the latter. “Ramoz, there’s no need to be so venomous, I’m here on business. Marina wants back-up for a job, and the Hell’s kitchen crew dropped out. She’s willing to negotiate a better cut this time.” He raised his eyebrows, as though that made him look any less like a weasel. </p><p> </p><p>“The last time we worked with you, three of my guys almost died!” Matt spat back, and Quentin’s stomach dropped at the realization that <em> oh fuck he might be involved in organized crime </em>. Pete raised his hands in a hollow gesture of supplication. “Hey, hey, I feel you, that job got out of hand, no one expected werewolves.” Okay, Maybe not organized crime. “This one’s by the books, all small scale, promise. We just need a few distractions, I can give you all the details in the back.”</p><p> </p><p>From the look Pete gave, it clearly wasn’t a request. He took Matt by the arm, and the pair made their way to the back of the house. The rest of the coven, Quentin finally noticed, had fallen silent. Rachel was avoiding eye contact, deeply entranced by the bottom of her cosmo, and come to think of it the scar on her upper arm <em> definitely </em> looked like it could have been from wolves, Becca wat watching the two, expression uneasy, and Trevor looked positively excited at the prospect of whatever was going down. That was probably the most disconcerting reaction of all. They didn’t seem too surprised, so he assumed that coven’s working together wasn’t a huge shock, but it definitely didn’t seem like good news either. Fuck, he might have been in over his head. Now would have been a great time to step back, re-evaluate his life choices, and not get so worked up because Sleazy McShitface was looking down on them, despite needing <em> their </em>help. Which was exactly what Quentin resolved to do, he most certainly wasn’t going to get up, and start anything, or-</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!” God damn it. Quentin was standing before he realized what he was doing, before he had any idea what he was going to say, because- because why? Because as frustrating as it was, this was his place, and these were his people? Because he was tired of being talked down to by condescending dicks like this guy, had dealt with enough of it at Columbia? Whatever the reason, he had Pete’s attention, and needed to say <em> something </em> . “Uh, they’re- he’s not <em> keeping the good stuff </em> from the rookies. I’ve learned a lot here, you dick.”</p><p> </p><p>Pete seemed, for lack of a better word, amused. Like he was thinking <em> ‘wow, this baby hedge dumbass is actually picking a fight with me’ </em> , and for once Quentin was almost sure he wasn’t just projecting his worst case scenario over the situation. He looked Quentin over, and snorted derisively.  “Right, because you know so much about the ‘good stuff’. Kid, you’re what, level two?”</p><p> </p><p>“Five” he grumbled. Pete laughed, and Quentin wanted to punch him in his stupid smug jaw. “Wow, level five, that’s real impressive. Why don’t you sit down and let the grown ups talk, kay?”</p><p> </p><p>He turned on his heel, dismissing Quentin, and moved his focus back to the back room. Not Matt, who was clearly just a means to an end. Quentin seethed. “Sure, or if you’ve got such better stuff, why don’t we trade? What would i have to do to take a look at your library-”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m gonna cut you off there kid.” Pete interrupted, turning back around and g<em> ood God could this guy look like more of a douche if he tried? </em> “If Marina was interested in anything you had to offer, she would have come to you. And the fact that you settled for running with these clowns, means she’s not interested.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Quentin paced the loft, back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, until he had memorized every last insignificant detail. He'd cataloged each slightly loose tile in the bathroom, finally noticed the slightly discolored spot on the ceiling in his room, and successfully ignored the growing stack of coffee mugs in the sink. He could take care of any of them easily, maybe even try doing so with magic, but acknowledging the small problems around him would only leave room for everything else to come crashing in.</p><p> </p><p>Aside from a single grocery run, and a quick stop at a nearby (if one considered an hour of travel and two trains each way 'quick') Hedge Bar, Quentin hadn't left the loft in three days. In part, it was a necessity, but were he being honest, he knew he was moping.</p><p> </p><p>Right now, Quentin was on a blacklist with McNaughton's. Apparently, that was just what happened when you decided to piss off the right hand of the most powerful Coven in New York. Go figure. He wasn't in trouble, per say, but Matt had (firmly, very firmly) suggested that he stay out for a while, until he smoothed things over. It was absolute <em> bullshit </em> , Pete had been a complete dick, and McNaughton’s was still the number three Coven in the city, that had to count for something? At least, Quentin had thought so, until Matt explained that the jump between one and two was like, a whole order of magnitude, and their number three spot wasn't impressive as he had previously been led to believe. So, ipso facto, Quentin was on the outs, and he really wished he had actually punched Pete. At least <em> that </em>would be a good reason for leaving him in the dark.</p><p> </p><p>The only upside Quentin could find was that he wasn't missing out on some huge learning opportunity with the job Pete wanted them to do; Matt had called him the next morning, during the same conversation where he had so graciously told him to<em> 'stay out for a few days, I get some leeway with them because we've known each other for years, you're nobody. So just, keep your head down, I'll let you know when you can come back' </em> . It really was small scale work. Just some small scale spells in some random alleys and intersections throughout the city, more noise than anything else. Neither of them had needed to say that it was, obviously, a small step in a larger ritual, but if Matt were privy to the greater details he wasn't in a position, or mood, to share. Needless to say, it was frustrating. He was pissed off, restless, and the only outlet he could find for this overflow of energy was hyper-fixating on fucking <em> coffee mugs </em>.</p><p> </p><p>The situation at the loft, with his mundane life, wasn't on any better a trajectory than his magic life was. Julia had claimed she would stay in touch, that she would be spending weekends at the loft, but hadn't made the time to see them since her first week. It would have been fine, he supposed, if she had a better excuse than<em> 'I just really need to study, this stuff is really important! </em> ' every damn time. For fucks sake, how much finance could one person study without losing their mind? And half the time, Quentin wasn't even privy to these conversations. He would just hear about them after the fact, when James would grit his teeth and pretend everything was <em> 'fine, it's really fine. This is important to her, and I love her, so, it's fine’ </em> before leaving for another late night of drinks with his co-workers. Their fighting was as far from subtle as anyone's could be, if even Quentin noticed, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why James wouldn't just talk to him about it. He wasn't sure which of them had it worse; losing Julia, for him, had been hell. She was his best friend, his bedrock and the heights he aspired towards. She had carved a fundamental space in the back of his head, and it would always be waiting for her, should she want it or not. But, losing her had also been quick. The drop of a guillotine before a silent crowd. It hurt, but it was inevitable. The court had tried him, and judged him as having already been losing her for years. She was growing, becoming a new person every day, and he had been the one who refused to follow. James, on the other hand, was the person she had grown with. Quentin had witnessed Julia's transformation but James had walked with her step by step. His loss of her was slow, a sealed room gradually losing oxygen, a coffin that offered just enough hope of getting out alive before you finally asphyxiated.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck it. Both options sucked. He loved Julia, would <em> always </em> love Julia. But right now, <em> fuck </em>Julia.</p><p> </p><p>So, he paced. He practiced the few spells he knew, and he paced. He looked up magical healing online, learned more bullshit about rose quartz than anyone could ever unlearn (no, it wasn't great for<em> 'promoting harmony and unconditional love' </em>, though according to Sarah it was actually a fantastic ingredient for some rather explosive rituals), and he paced. He thought about finding a market, realized that wasn't very 'low profile', and he paced. If he'd ever bought into the fit-bit craze, his step count would be absolutely absurd. Instead, all he had to show for his trouble was a bruise on his hip where he had managed to walk into the table five times.</p><p> </p><p>He was lost in his thoughts, moments away from his sixth attempt at breaking his hip, when the door knocked. Quentin froze. The list of people who had reason to come here was an incredibly short one, and the list of people who might come here and be interested in Quentin even shorter. Julia was still at her fancy private school, uncharacteristically salivating at tax law or something, James wouldn't be home for a few hours, assuming he came home at all, and Quentin had been careful to keep his address away from any of his Hedge contacts. It was possible he'd been followed, but why? Other than ruffling one guy's greasy feathers, he hadn't made any enemies, and he certainly didn't know enough for anyone to want his help. Solicitors were equally unlikely, as no one in their right mind would ring them into the building. Except for maybe Ms. Harris down the hall, her age <em> was </em>starting to catch up with her. The door knocked again, and Quentin huffed. Might as well get this over with, he thought, and-</p><p> </p><p>Oh. That was certainly a possibility as well.</p><p> </p><p>“You could have called.”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot stood at the threshold, dressed in what Quentin could only see as full battle armor after how casual he had been when they last spoke. A dark grey jacket and trouser, slate blue vest, the only touch of color a lightly dotted wine red scarf or sorts. The look was more somber than anything Quentin had seen him in before, he hated it immediately. “Would you have picked up?” He nearly whispered.</p><p> </p><p>“Probably not,” Quentin eventually replied. The air lingered heavy between them. He could close the door right now, tell Eliot he was an absolute jackass and he didn't need him, that he was fine on his own. Or, he could welcome him in, come what may. They were on the threshold, waiting to see if the limit had been crossed to allow a reaction to take place. Quentin swallowed, he'd always been shit at chemistry. ‘What are you doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>“I-'' He paused, and looked down the hallway. Quentin's eyes didn't move from him, from the tense of his jaw, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, the only signs that he was just as on edge as Quentin felt. Eliot turned back towards him, striking Quentin with the full force of his distressingly open face. "Can I come in?” He eventually managed. Right, this was still a mundane apartment building, filled with muggles, who they shouldn't be talking about magic in front of. Circumstances be damned, Quentin had to make a choice now. It was embarrassingly easy. “Right, yeah, of course.” He stepped aside, arm outstretched in invitation. Eliot nodded, and Quentin couldn't help but hate himself a little for wanting him here so badly. It didn't make any sense, it wasn't like he even knew Eliot that well, undoubtedly by Eliot's design-</p><p> </p><p>Only, That wasn't true at all. He knew Eliot was a flamboyant creature, built upon a bed of extravagance, but he was also the sort of man who would speak of bicycle wheels and rakes with too much reverence to just be spouting pretentious art school schlock. He was the man who always sought the next distraction, but snapped back into reality the moment someone under his wing stopped having fun. He was the sort of guy who actually put periods in his text messages, without a care that it made him sound like a jackass, but would also text you a dozen times in an hour, usually with something trivial like a photo of a particularly small tree and the caption "look, it's you", sometimes to ask what he would have done at the circus, had he ever run away as a child to join the circus. On one memorable night, Eliot had texted him an incredible essay outlining how the duality of man was bullshit, since it relied on the existence of good and evil as actual concepts, and all that actually existed was context and circumstance and Stevenson could choke on his allegedly magnificent cock. The next morning, he came back stating he had a massive hangover and no memory of typing a single word of it. He knew that Eliot was a mess of performances, an infuriating peacock, a bit of an optimistic nihilist, and someone who Quentin shouldn't have been relieved to see walking into his apartment. But here he was, and he <em> hated </em>it.</p><p> </p><p>The source of Quentin's vexation now stood in the living room, not awkwardly, but visibly unsure of whether or not he should take a seat. As out of place as it was to see the man in such a state, it was nice to be reminded that he was indeed, human, and just as unsure as himself. What was the social protocol when your ex-friend who introduced you to magic and promptly dumped you came to your home looking like a kicked puppy? Quentin looked around the open plan space he had spent the last days memorizing, and found himself unnervingly conscious of the mess of pages he had printed from various websites scattered across the coffee table, and the many scuffs he had left across the floor. The mess in the kitchen was at least, mostly, hidden from view from their position, but Eliot was definitely tall enough that he could see the god forsaken explosion of mugs in the sink. Should he have offered Eliot some coffee? He recalled making some earlier, and he hadn't finished the pot yet, but it had probably long since gone bad. Besides, Eliot was probably a tea guy anyways.</p><p> </p><p>Eliot cleared his throat, recapturing Quentin's attention. He half expected to find his...guest, looking through his collection of half-formed notes, of mostly junk spells and insomnia, face twisted in judgement at how 'sad and desperate' he was. Instead, he turned to find Eliot looking him in the eye, and Quentin finally realized that his guests' eyeliner was more likely the result of several nights of restlessness. He wanted to brush that darkness away, tell him they were going to be alright. He wanted to snap at him, say he deserved it. He wanted to go back to when things made any sense at all.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, Eliot spoke before Quentin could flounder any longer over the direction this conversation would go in. He exhaled. “I’m... I’m not good at this. But, I was kind of an ass.”</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, Quentin could feel every nerve in his body prickle as he went on the defensive. Was that supposed to make everything better? The groundbreaking revelation that Eliot Waugh could be a dick? “Kind of? I didn’t notice.”  He snapped. Eliot's eyes narrowed in response, and good. Let him be displeased, he knew what he was walking into.</p><p> </p><p>“Q, I’m trying to be serious here-”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, and I’m not?" He interrupted, and if his lack of sleep from the last few nights let an edge of mania bleed into his voice, he didn't really care. "I don’t know what this looks like from your perspective, but from here, it looks a lot like my friend threw me to the wolves. Possibly literal wolves, did you know that werewolves are a real thing? I do, not that you seemed all that concerned .”</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t exactly in a position to help-”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you were just in a position to show me that all of this was real, that maybe I was a part of something meaningful, and then you fucking left me!”</p><p> </p><p>The last words were practically torn from his throat, and the aftermath uncomfortable and disquieting. He stared at Eliot, breathing too hard, while Eliot looked down, shifting his weight. It was unfair. Fuck, all of this was unfair. Quentin knew, objectively, he knew this wasn't Eliot's fault. He also knew that he was selfish, and bitter, and tired, and some dark, ugly part of him wanted to know that Eliot was hurting too.</p><p> </p><p>Then he spoke, a torn whisper of a thing, and Quentin remembered that he was indeed, a jackass.</p><p> </p><p>“I know, I was there.”</p><p> </p><p>The heat that had pounded in Quentin's head moments before receded. Not gone, but tempered. “So why did you come back?” He breathed, his voice as even and level as a mountain range.</p><p> </p><p>“Because, against my better judgement, I missed you, alright?” Eliot looked up, and if he didn't know better, he would say he almost sounded desperate. Scratch that, he did know better, and he knew El was. His anger was as much his armor as Eliot's stupid fucking jackets. He sighed. Maybe he was just as desperate, desperate to slip back into some sense of normal. Maybe for once he could let it be easy.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,  you do not get to Mr. Darcy your way out of this conversation.” Quentin eventually managed. He aimed for levity, for a concession that 'we can just talk, I'll try if you'll try', but it came out more of a hitch in his throat. Hopefully Eliot understood anyways.</p><p> </p><p>If his soft laugh was anything to go by, he just might have. Possibly the first thing to go right this week. “Oh, I knew I’d heard that before somewhere. ”</p><p> </p><p>“Eliot.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right, right," He raised a hand in an appeal for-Quentin wasn't sure what, and stepped forward. He still held a sense of weariness, but his bravado was back. For not the first time, Quentin found himself asking how much of Eliot's character was performance, and if he would ever get close enough to know. "Look, I don’t apologize, and if I did, I wouldn’t be any good at it. But, I am self aware enough to know when I’ve hurt someone, and for once I’m actually inclined to care. I don’t know what things have been like for you out here, but hopefully these can help make it easier.”</p><p> </p><p>He reached into the pocket of his vest, fingers tucking around his pocket-watch and- withdrawing a large, rolled stack of pages. Quentin blinked. He had seen something like this in the notes at McNaughton's, a spell for planar compression, or a Tardis spell as he preferred to call it, but it was fairly high level. It would be at least months before he was taught that spell, assuming he was ever let back in. "Here." Eliot continued, handing over the pages, which unfurled in Quentin's hand as though they had never been wadded into a cramped vest pocket at all. "I’m happy to go over them with you, if you don’t want to kick me out.”</p><p> </p><p>Good God, they were notes. Pages and pages of notes, some of the symbols familiar from the back room of the bar, but <em> so many more </em> he didn't recognize, and that was just from skimming the top few pages. These were- the collection at the Safe House was fantastic, a collection of spells and a group of fellow witches to learn with, but these notes were more than just a few party tricks and spells he could fire off, these were actual theory, the governing laws of magic that were apparently a thing, and no one had bothered to mention to him yet. These were- If Eliot had taken these from his coven- Quentin's head spun.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, but, what? Didn’t you say that the people you’re learning from are-”</p><p> </p><p>“Are very secretive, yes," Eliot interrupted, soft, but firm, "and if they find out what I’m doing they’ll probably throw me out, and I won't pretend it isn't a big deal, since they'll definitely take my memories before doing so. Don’t worry, I’m being careful.”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin stepped back before he could think. “Eliot, what the <em> actual </em> fuck? You-you can’t do this, no-” Taking memories? They could do that? These weren't notes, they were a god damn <em> execution </em> order, and he couldn't do that. He pushed the pages back towards Eliot, not caring if they crumpled in the process- fuck, he should have cared if they crumpled, what if they came back damages and Eliot got in trouble anyways, or-</p><p> </p><p>Eliot cupped a hand on his shoulder, and Quentin was suddenly hyper-aware that he was beginning to hyperventilate. Right, breathing, that was a thing people were supposed to do. “Quentin, it’s fine, these are my copy, no one is going to miss them.”</p><p> </p><p>Only it wasn't fine. Seriously, what part of that was Quentin supposed to unpack first? “Jesus fucking Christ, who the hell have you been learning from?" He fell back, gracelessly flopping onto the teal sofa. "And here I thought I was in over my head.”</p><p> </p><p>Eliot chuckled, and took his place besides him. He smelled like sandalwood and citrus, and cheap cigarettes. “It’s fine, I can handle it. But...have you been alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“I…” And wasn't that the million dollar question. The answer was obvious, especially if the bags under his eyes rivaled Eliot's as much as he thought they did. Still, that was the social protocol, right? Even if the answer was a resounding 'no', the real answer was<em> 'yeah I'm actually fine, so what do you think of the weather?' </em> . But wouldn't it be nice to say everything? <em> ‘No, I’m nott alright, and that’s a stupid fucking question’ </em>. He wasn't sleeping, he couldn't remember the last time he remembered to eat anything with any sort of plant matter in it, but more than anything, he was a man governed by fumes and fear. How much longer would he be on the outside? When would he finally know enough to figure out the spells he needed? Would his dad even be alive long enough for him to get there? Did the spell he needed even exist? What the ever loving fuck did Eliot want?</p><p> </p><p>Quentin was a raw nerve, held together by a sloppy cauterization. He could finish sealing the wound now, buried under a dressing of social conventions and pleasantries. That would probably be the better decision. He'd never been terribly good at those.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve-" He paused. For once, maybe he could go into a conversation with his thoughts organized, it was a novel concept to say the least. "I've been alright?” Quentin settled on a half truth. There were still words he could say aloud, things he couldn't make real, but he could admit to not knowing what he was doing. He could admit to treating every day like it had been an adventure, a new corner of magic to explore, because he didn't want to admit that he had no idea what he was doing. He could talk about the safe house, and how they were good people, but they didn't get him, the "not like you did' unspoken. He could admit to, despite all things, being lonely.</p><p> </p><p>The distance between their shoulders couldn't have been more than six inches. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Eliot, and far enough to be unsettled by the sheer want of it  Eliot exhaled.  “You can’t have been that lonely, what about your coven, your roommates?”</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged. “It's like I said, the coven is fine, but other than magic we don’t really click? And I'm like, the newest member by a while, even the only guy there my age figured out this stuff was real when he was in high school, so, for most of them the novelty has worn off? I still can't figure how that's possible, but it's whatever. And things with the roommates have been... pretty shit. Julia and I still aren’t really talking, and James barely even sleeps here anymore. But, um, it is what it is. What about you? Have you been okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Quentin dared a glance at Eliot, who looked back at him thoughtfully. Some small, foolish part of Quentin hoped he would deliver the outburst of honesty he had been too afraid to voice. In his mind, Eliot would lean closer, would say<em> 'In vain have I struggled. It will not do' </em>, and Quentin would laugh at him for not being able to decide if he wanted to be Darcy or Elizabeth, and in his mind Quentin would be brave, and lean in to close that insufferable distance and fucking kiss him already, and they would take on the world together-</p><p> </p><p>But this wasn't a great romance. This was real life, where he was just a guy, still trying to figure out where he fit with the man by his side. A man who was willing to show up, to put his ass on the line to help him and for what?, but who definitely didn't want that. Eliot didn't exactly strike him as the type to be shy about stating what he wanted. Still, El smiled at him. "I suppose I've been alright, all things considered. Better now, if you believe we've properly made amends?" Quentin nodded, though Eliot has done far more. He was still trying not to think too much about the whole 'take away my memories' thing.</p><p> </p><p>"Good," he continued, and peeled himself from the sofa. "Well, you can still reach out to me anytime, and really, that offer to go over those with you is open. I am sorry about showing unannounced, for what it's worth. I'll just"</p><p> </p><p>Eliot started for the door, smoothing his jacket, and fortunately not noticing Quentin’s body following his as he stood. He couldn't just- why- “Hey,” he called, louder than was really needed for the ten feed between them, but it felt like ten feet too far. “You-you don’t have to go.”</p><p> </p><p>At least he got Eliot to pause, to turn back. In retrospect, he probably could have said anything and Eliot would have stopped, but that didn't matter now. “You don’t have to be nice just because I brought you some notes”.</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed. “Yeah, I'm not that easy El. That’s- that's not what this is about. Maybe I missed you too, okay? It doesn’t have to be a thing, just- can I at least get you something to drink?”</p><p> </p><p>Something familiar slipped over Eliot's face, an airy unconcern that made Quentin's chest clench. “My my, I didn’t see you as the day drinking sort-”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh shut up, I meant like, tea or something” He snorted. Yeah, they were going to be just fine.</p><p> </p><p>“Tea sounds lovely.”</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes and one raid of Julia's shelf in the kitchen later, the two settled with one mug of tea, and one mug of something that was once tea but was now approximately half sugar, a rare instance of Eliot's lack of taste, as he put it. Initial trepidation aside, Quentin found himself falling into a familiar rhythm. It was almost comfortable. He eventually settled, and let himself lean against Eliot like nothing had changed, and Eliot eventually draped his arm over Quentin's shoulder, tucking him into the nook of his body, fingertips tugging at the ends of Quentin's hair. He'd never had a friendship as tactile as the one he shared with El, and for not the first time, he wondered where they could have been now had Eliot not been such a- no, he hadn't been a dick. Well, he had been, but it made sense now, at least.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn't a subject Quentin felt like he could broach rationally though, not yet. There were safer topics aplenty to discuss as it was. The escalating rivalry Eliot had against one of the other houses on his campus, and his plans to destroy them next weekend <em> ('wow, I didn't realize people took their fraternities that seriously outside of like, Eighties films' </em> Quentin had contributed, and Eliot had shushed him in a tone that should have been exceedingly patronizing, but god damn if it wasn't effective), the latest news on the market front ( <em> 'Seriously? How have you not heard about this yet? Okay, it's a long story there was a whole psychic scam-artist ring and- come on El it was all over LiveJournal!' 'Wait, Live Journal is still a thing?' 'you're hopeless. So anyways-' </em>). When Eliot eventually got up to make then some coffee, with an admission to actually hating tea but being too surprised at the invitation to stay to say to earlier, he took a closer look at the notes Eliot had brought. And- wow. Governing circumstances, psychic defense, a surprising amount of writing about spotting and breaking down wards, and a not-insignificant number of doodles of varying levels of appropriateness in the margins. The page on magical STDs was...well, he certainly wouldn't be unseeing it anytime soon.</p><p> </p><p>He did ask a few questions about the magics contained in those papers, symbols he didn't recognize and a few concepts he didn't quite get yet (<em> 'internal circumstances? Spellcasting can vary based on- on what, your psychology?' ' Basically, yeah' </em>), but found himself unwilling to dive much further than that. Eliot was smart, way smarter than he let on, and if talking to Matt and the rest of the Coven had been like a high school study group, listening to Eliot was sitting in on a distinguished speaker presentation at Cambridge. And he knew, God he knew Eliot would help him. But he had done enough, just being here was doing enough.</p><p> </p><p>When Eliot finally moved to leave again, citing early lectures tomorrow, It was only natural that Quentin would follow him to the door, ignoring the urge to invite him to stay longer anyways.</p><p> </p><p>"I know, it's a tragedy, truly, but I can only skip so often before people start asking questions. Showing no effort means you're making one when no one looks, but showing the bare minimum leaves everyone dazzled." Quentin nodded in response, though he really didn't get it. Eliot's view of academia was in inherent opposition to his own, but whatever worked, he guessed. Whatever school he was going to was definitely far more lenient than Columbia had been.</p><p> </p><p>Before Quentin could find the right words for goodbye, the right balance of casual farewell and  <em> 'Hey, I missed you too, and while I've been figuring this out, I really wish I could have done this with you but I get it, and I'm trying not to be mad about it anymore just please don't leave me again' </em>, Eliot turned. He almost had a quip prepared, something about Eliot being so drawn in by Quentin's charms that he just couldn't leave, that would inevitably sound great in his head and completely idiotic out loud, when-</p><p> </p><p>When Eliot pulled him close, wrapped him up against his chest. God, it wasn't fucking<em> fair </em>, someone that tall and that lanky shouldn't also be allowed to have such strong arms. He wanted to sink into Eliot, warm, solid Eliot, and live in whatever space he would let Quentin carve out for himself, pretend everything was alright for a little longer.</p><p> </p><p>Eliot shifted, grounding him more than he would like. "Q, I know you're already in this mess, so I can't exactly ask you not to do anything stupid. Not that you would listen, but... Quentin, please try to stay safe?"</p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>"I...I'll try." He managed. The words felt hollow as he spoke them. He could try, sure, but he knew it wasn't a promise he could keep. If Eliot feared the same, he didn't voice it. He did squeeze Quentin tighter for a moment before letting go, that was nice.</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you."</p><p> </p><p>It was as much a plea as it was anything else, and it made Quentin's chest ache in a way he wasn't ready to address. Maybe it didn't have to, it couldn't be that hard to stay safe in a world of magic, right?</p><p> </p><p>They wrapped up the rest of their goodbyes, and Eliot was gone. And somehow, he had taken Quentin's ennui with him. That restless energy that had plagued him for days was replaced with new material to research, possible new leads, and a reminder that just maybe, he wasn't alone. He took the next few minutes to clear the coffee table, clearing a space to spread Eliot's notes out upon. He wouldn't even need to conceal them, James wouldn't care and the odds of Julia showing up were approaching zero. Maybe he could also take a few moments to finally clean out the sink, a novel concept if he'd ever heard one. But, organizing your space was supposed to help organize your mind, at least according to pop psychology, so it couldn't hurt.</p><p> </p><p>Once Quentin was properly elbow deep in dish soap and one of the ridiculous hemp kitchen sponges Julia insisted on buying, his phone rang. Once the conversation was over, he knew his promise to stay safe was already broken.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Everything hurt. His throat burned, his legs ached, and his chest constricted with exertion, but none of that mattered, he just <em> needed to keep running </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Quentin didn't dare stop. He had made that mistake a few blocks back, ducking into an alley and stopping to breathe next to a dumpster that smelled like rotting produce and cat piss and freedom, before the calls of <em> 'he went this way, I'm sure of it' </em> returned. Fuck, he really should have considered the existence of night vision spells before getting chased through East New York. There wasn't time to dwell on the details though. All he could focus on was the pounding of feet against the pavement, the resounding thuds keeping perfect time with his mind's current repeating loop; <em> 'I fucked up, I fucked, up, God, I fucked up.' </em></p><p> </p><p><em> ('Hello?" Quentin spoke into the nook of his shoulder, phone tucked between his cheek and collar in a manner that always seemed so much more practical on television, but was frankly a pain. Still, soapy hands equaled desperate measures </em> <em> , and the towel was still on the other end of the counter. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Quentin Coldwater?" asked a pleasant, but tired voice. Once his hands were no longer a dripping hazard, he checked the screen. The call was definitely from an unknown number, so- "Yeah, I'm-um, that's me, who is this?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I'm calling from Hackensack Meridian Health Mountainside, about your father. He's alright, but it's urgent that you come as soon as you can-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She continued, reciting her long-memorized list of protocols and requirements for what he would need to bring. At least, Quentin assumed she did. As it was, all he could hear was static. He didn't remember leaving the loft, or getting on the C-line towards the Port Authority, or boarding the 163. Walking through the doors of the hospital, handing over his non-driver ID, being handed a cheap sticker with his name and 'visitor' printed on it; these were vague recollections. His body had carried out the steps, but he was a passenger, watching from someplace far away and in a state of disconnect. The static had persisted through the discussion with his dad's doctor. Ted really was okay, all things considered. He had collapsed while leaving the house, but was fortunate that his neighbors noticed. They would be keeping her for monitoring, in case of head trauma, and Quentin had to bite back a laugh. His dad had a fucking brain tumor, how much more head trauma could you really add to that? Still, Ted had regained consciousness at some point during his commute, so he wasn't really needed here as next of kin anymore. The moments passed as vignettes, disjointed and jarring. One moment he would be asking about concussions, the next he'd be in in the hallway, starting at a wall and desperately fidgeting for a cigarette, and the next sitting by his dad's bedside, saying "Is this really a good time?You just woke back up I don't really want to talk about your estate plan". </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He didn't come back into his body until the next day, when he finally returned to the loft, and no one was around to tell him not to scream.) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was hard to say whether or not he had gained any real ground. He hadn't heard any shouts for at least a few turns, but this was their hunting ground, and for all Quentin knew he was right in their cross hairs. He scanned his surroundings, as best as anyone could when half the streetlights were out. There weren't many options for where to go from here. A closed bodega, a condemned building that might have been a strip club at one point, a construction site. Turning back was the worst decision he could make; for all his faults, he knew when he was outmatched, and being chased by angry hedges<em> definitely </em>counted as being outmatched.</p><p> </p><p>The condemned building was the safest bet. It would probably be the easiest of the three to break into, and hiding was his best chance. Quentin rushed towards the door, fingers flying in what should have been an easy unlocking spell<em> (Just yesterday, he and Eliot had laughed while working on this spell together, connected to one another and kept apart by the confinement of modern technology. Quentin had done his best to copy, despite the video lag from Eliot's less-than-perfect phone signal, though it didn't stop his hands from moving with absolute perfection. 'Here,' Eliot had said, 'your fingers aren't lining properly, they need to glide along the meridian- God this would be so much easier in person', and he had laughed, and ignored the pang of guilt that, just maybe, he should tell Eliot what he was planning to do with this spell)</em>. That spell had taken the better part of the night to get the hang of after their call, but he figured it out, and had even cast it perfectly maybe an hour ago, but he couldn't stop shaking now. He snapped about, there really weren't any better options. Maybe he could kick the door down? It was better than nothing, he hoped.</p><p> </p><p>He took a step back, and stopped for a breath. The voices hadn't caught up yet, but that didn't mean anything. His heart pounded in his throat, thumping like some ensnared beast and he hadn't figured out yet where they had placed the noose. It was now or never, he just needed to get out of the open already. Quentin exhaled, and took one step. Then another. Then he charged, steeling himself for impact against the door, knee extended and-</p><p> </p><p>And he was falling, the door giving way like paper and his ankle giving way like a hinge pulled the wrong way. Quentin gasped, the air briefly knocked from his lungs as he hit the floor. The door was shattered, collapsed inside the building with Quentin on top of the rotting pieces. He might have taken a moment to gag at the smell of the exposed wood if he wasn't busy remembering how to breath. He struggled to get up, shaking harder now from the added adrenaline rush- when his ankle gave out, almost dropping him back to the floor. <em> Fuck </em>, he was so, completely and totally, fucked.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he could still find a corner to hide in, maybe they wouldn't notice he went in here. <em> Maybe that would be more likely if you hadn't just destroyed the entrance </em> , his brain helpfully supplied. Shit. He was crashing, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking and his lungs hurt and <em> why the fuck had he thought any of this was a good idea? </em> Fighting back tears, Quentin hobbled to a corner that still had a few moldy seats for cover. Jesus fucking Christ, he could actually die tonight, and no one would have any idea what had happened. He moved to the ground, curled into the tightest ball he could, phone digging painfully into his hip.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Please, try to stay safe?' </em> circled through his mind over and over. Yeah, for all he had known he was going to break that promise, even he hadn't expected to screw up this badly. He should just accept his fate, try not to drag anyone else down with him. Only, he was too selfish for that. Every creak and shadow of this building had him on edge, each sound a gunshot in a void. He nearly dropped his phone twice as he fumbled it from his pocket, and he felt far too close to the scared kid he had been so many years ago, hiding under the covers with a flashlight and another world to jump into to keep the monsters at bay.</p><p> </p><p><em> (If joining McNaughton's without so much as a second thought had been diving into the deep end headfirst, now Quentin had brought a whole excavation team and was ready to dig. Eliot's notes were incredible, they were the foundational knowledge that his coven was missing, that they didn't even seem to </em> know <em> they were missing. They were theory, and rules, and confirmation that shifting the fabric of reality was a lot harder than any of his favorite authors made it sound, and any struggles on his part weren't just his shortcomings. They were also a stark reminder that he had so far to go still, and the Safe House might not (probably wouldn't) be able to get him where he needed to go. He needed more material, he needed foundational healing at a minimum, and Quentin knew he had a source. If he asked Eliot, he would definitely help, but at what cost? He couldn't be the reason El was thrown out, the reason he possibly lost magic entirely. Unfortunately, it wasn't like any of his other leads were turning up anything helpful. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Clarissa had all but vanished from the city. Any Safe Houses McNaughton's had an amicable relationship with were either so small that they had nothing worth sharing to begin with, or were unwilling to speak with Quentin due to his blacklisted status. The best and worst thing about small communities was how fast word got around, he figured. So it was surprising how long it took for the name of the Top Bitch of New York to come up. The only hedge in the city higher than level forty, the head of the most cutthroat Safe House on the East Coast, and the person Quentin had inadvertently pissed off when he challenged that jackass Pete; Marina Andrieski. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If you needed information, she was undoubtedly the person in the city who would have it. But if her reputation was even half true, then it was a non-starter. Her prices were steep, and if you came to her, she would be sure to bleed you for everything you had. But if she came to you, she would come with enough leverage to make sure you never forgot she was in charge. Furthermore, he was undoubtedly persona non grata in her books. Well, her lackeys' books, she probably didn't know nor care who he was. And that, he could use. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Trading some of the information he got from Eliot with other new hedges, kids somehow greener than him, had gotten him the location of Marina's base of operations; a run down convenient store that was warded up to hell and back. He planted himself outside of that shop for as long as he could go unnoticed, for hours, over days. Deciphering them was only step one of getting in...) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The odds of there being a bigger idiot on the planet than Quentin Coldwater, he thought as he tucked further into himself, were astronomically slim. Sure, he'd made it past the first set of wards, and into the backroom, but had completely missed that those initial wards were a fucking alert system designed to be simple enough for idiots like him to try and break. The actual protections around the Safe House were far more subtle. He would have loved to study them, had he not been faced with someone blasting what he could only assume was a fucking magic missile at him before he could even touch the door to the back room.</p><p> </p><p>The phone rang once, twice, his throat constricted and he gave up on not crying. Were those footsteps outside? Maybe it was just his pulse in his ears, and he would be alright, and-</p><p> </p><p>Eliot picked up after the second ring. Wherever he was, it was loud, music and laughter coming together in a muffled mess. Of course he would call El in the middle of a Frat party, with his luck.</p><p> </p><p>"Quentin! What, didn't want to miss out?" He called out. Boisterous, joyful, definitely a bit drunk. His voice was warm and welcoming and Quentin wanted to curl up in it, not the damp cold corner of a condemned building. God damn it, he wanted to say as much, this could be the last time they ever fucking talked. But before he could form the words, a sob tore itself from his throat.</p><p> </p><p>The pause that followed was agonizing, far too silent even with Britney Spears working her way through the speaker of his phone in a tinny voice. "Quentin? Hey, talk to me, what's wrong?". The background noise died down, possibly as Eliot stepped outside? It was hard to tell, it was hard to focus.</p><p> </p><p>"I-" He started, before his throat seized again. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, and those definitely were footsteps outside. They hadn't come in yet, but they were getting closer, closer. "Eliot, I need help." He cried openly, there wasn't a point in trying to stop now. A pathetic picture, especially in the end. fitting.</p><p> </p><p>Eliot's voice sobered, probably the result of a spell now that he thought about it. "Hey, it's alright, I'm here. What happened Q?". And what was he supposed to say to that? This wasn't a misfired spell, or coming down from an overwhelming cooperative spell, or bad pot. His pursuers were close enough that he could hear voices again. Muffled, but close, and closing in. "Do you really think he went in there? It's so obvious" said the first. "Please," great. The second one was Pete. Of-fucking-course, the universe couldn't even give him this. "You really think he's, what, set some sort of trap? Trust me, planning is <em> not </em>this guy's strength. He's in there, we'll find him."</p><p> </p><p>They stepped over the rotting wood in the doorway, its soft crunch carrying to his corner. Quentin bit his tongue, desperately hoping they would get bored, or hear something else outside, and leave. He swore he could hear Eliot's teeth grind. "Quentin," he finally spoke, somber and deathly serious. "What did you get into?"</p><p> </p><p>Unbidden, a twisted cross of laugh and sob wormed its way from Quentin's mouth, despite all efforts to choke it back. The footsteps stopped, then began making their way to his corner, he couldn't stop shaking, he didn't have much time left- "I'm so sorry El, I fucked up, I <em> really </em>fucked up."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Riddle stolen from AutomationFor on Reddit</p><p>Find me on Tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theauditty</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Mistakes; Major and Minor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Quentin has a headache. Eliot has a lucky Penny.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote half this chapter while on pain meds post having my wisdom teeth taken out. Thank you again, to the Illustrious Ruby, for making sense of a great deal of my ramblings. This chapter has taken a while to get out, but I'm so glad to be sharing it with you now &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>I think I’d better go</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I try something I might regret</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I might regret</span>
</p><p>
  <span>                                         -Nothing But Thieves</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin woke up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Typically, that wouldn't be noteworthy. Typically, he would be curled up in his room, having finally passed out after an hour or two of visiting Fillory, only to stir awake again with a book resting on his face and his insomnia back in full force. Typically, he wasn't bound to a chair in an unfamiliar room with his lip bleeding and wrists bound behind his back, aching for any give.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, he was cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin couldn't remember how he got here. He sure as hell didn't know where 'here' was. The room was barren. Just a concrete floor with some ominous stains, haphazard wire shelves pushed against the wall, a few fluorescent lights and </span>
  <em>
    <span>if the one in the corner didn't stop flickering he was going to scream</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From behind the veil of his hair, sweat stuck to his forehead, he could make out Pete's feet as he continued to pace the room. He hadn't seen the other hedges since waking up the first time, though why Pete would bother dealing with him alone was a mystery. The only thing keeping him sane was the realization that if they actually wanted to kill him, he'd be dead already. If he were a dead man, they wouldn't have bothered moving him to this 90s grunge hellscape of an interrogation site. His body would just have been left in a condemned strip club to be fed on by rats for two weeks before some unlucky demolition crewman stumbled across his gnawed corpse. But he was here, and he was alive. Quentin clung to the thought with the desperation of a drowning man, despite only half believing it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He peered up as much as he could without lifting his head. Even if he wanted to bring attention to himself by moving, the thought of trying made him want to throw up. Pete had removed his jacket, and was rolling up his sleeves. The flickering made it hard to tell, but the scuff on his knuckles from where they had come in contact with Quentin's jaw still looked fairly fresh. He probably hadn't been out long this time</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You can stop pretending you're not awake. Jesus, it's like you've never even heard of breath control." Jackass. His words were clipped, sharp, and there really wasn't a point in responding to them. One, Pete didn't seem to be interested in what he had to say, and two, Quentin was having a hard enough time keeping his assailant from blurring out of focus, let alone trying to talk his way out of this. What had he even been asking earlier? Quentin slumped further forward, as far as his screaming shoulders would allow. His head wouldn't stop pounding. There was a stain on the ground by his shoe and- was that blood? Wait, was this a meat locker? How did he get here?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hand gripped the back of his hair, yanking his head up. Quentin yelped in equal parts pain and surprise. Right, Pete. Pete was his current priority, not the possible bloodstain. Did it have to be so fucking bright in here? "Now," Pete hissed, "are you going to tell me what your insignificant little coven was after, or do you really expect me to believe that you don't know what I'm talking about."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wait, when had the coven gotten involved? "I- I don't-" He tried to screw his eyes shut, grit his teeth so hard he swore he heard one of them crack. How could fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>light </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurt?. Pete threw his hand down, still attached to Quentin's scalp, and the room spun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Christ, you're pathetic," he exhaled. "Alright, don't say I didn't give you a choice."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pete took a few steps away, and went back to rolling up his sleeves. His shoulders tensed, and Quentin realized he was about to get hit. If the throbbing of his temple was anything indicator, he was about to get hit </span>
  <em>
    <span>again.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He tried to brace himself, tensing his shoulders and clenching the muscles of his stomach. Instead he lurched to the side, only staying upright by the grace of the zip-tie cutting into his wrists and the bolts keeping the chair affixed to the floor. Pete took a half step forward - and Quentin almost yelped again at the screech of the steel door sliding open. The sound echoed through the concrete box long after the sliding stopped, or maybe Quentin's ears were just ringing. At this point, he'd gladly take another punch if it meant he could be unconscious for a few more moments.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Pete. If you're going to call me out this late, you'd better make sure there's something left I can interrogate." A new voice commanded from the doorway. Even the clack of her heels was intimidating, let alone the tone of her voice. Yet there was a lightness to it, one that didn't demand respect. It was the voice of a woman who was fully aware she was in complete control, and if you didn't recognize as much she </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>make it your problem. It wasn't hard to deduce exactly who she was, even before Pete confirmed it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Marina! I was- I was just getting him warmed up for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From what Quentin had gathered from the few people willing to talk, the reputation carried by Marina Andrieski was one even Atlas might consider cumbersome. She was among the highest ranking hedge witches on the Eastern seaboard, the top bitch in New York, and by all accounts, a ruthless force of nature. The woman before him had her auburn hair pulled back in a tight, high ponytail, with a few loose strands in her eyes. Her eye-shadow was smudged, and while her leather jacket said business she also seemed to be wearing slippers. She still managed to look every ounce a commander, and Quentin asked himself for the fiftieth time </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the actual fuck he had been thinking?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, there’s not much to find out." Pete replied. "I ran into this idiot at that safe house you wanted to bring in, maybe a week ago? They obviously sent him to get a better look at the inside of the operation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And did he get a better look?” Her question was pointed, and something about her reminded him of Julia. A much scarier version of Julia to be sure, but they possessed the same undercurrent of competence and tenacity hidden underneath soft smiles and femininity. Quentin found himself momentarily grateful that Julia had no idea there was magic in New York. If she and Marina were to ever meet, the repercussions would be equal parts incredible and horrifying. The thought alone made his headache suddenly spike.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pete scoffed, the roll of his eyes clearly audible. “No, he only got past the first set of wards. He’s a total rookie, what, level two?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Five” Quentin managed to cough. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and he knew on some level that drawing attention back to himself was a terrible idea, though somehow not in his top ten for worst decisions of the night. Also, fuck Pete.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Same difference," he retorted. Quentin tried to glare up at him, but only maybe managed a wince. At least the two had blurred out of focus enough that he couldn't make out their expressions. The pause in their conversation was unnerving enough without visuals.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Wait, is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>crying</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" Marina finally asked. Pete, who seriously could get fucked, laughed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yeah he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>can't take a hit. Anyways his casting's pretty unimpressive. He barely made it past the door.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From what Quentin could make out, Marina seemed to tilt her head to the side, sizing him up like prey. He felt cold, off balance, unfocused. In short, he felt pretty fucking helpless. "Mhmh, Got it, so let me get this straight," she turned her gaze back towards Pete. "An absolute nobody who can't take a hit tries to get in, doesn't see anything, gets caught by you no problem and hasn't made any move to get out, and you felt the need to drag my ass out here?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pete choked down the half-laugh he had managed before realizing that the tone in Marina's voice was pure murder. "Yeah- wait-no!" He stepped back, panicked but under a veneer of control. "Listen, a breach is a breach, I figured it was important for you to be here." He placated. His boss wasn't biting, and were Quentin's ears not ringing so loudly, he might have enjoyed the show.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, don’t do that." She cut off his attempts at excuses with a cold efficiency. "He’s one fucking baby hedge, you know what you do with them? You lock them in the freezer and let them wait, and</span>
  <em>
    <span> deal with them in the morning</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What exactly makes this one so urgent?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on Marina, the whole covens gotta be in on it,” Pete pleaded. At least, that's what Quentin imagined the slight whine in his voice meant. He dropped his head back down, at the protest of his strained shoulders. Maybe if he closed his eyes for </span>
  <em>
    <span>just a minute</span>
  </em>
  <span> everything would stop spinning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The clicking of heels let him know that Marina was pacing the room, moving further in and past where Pete had been standing. “Right, absolutely, Ramos is going to send one level five hedge who can’t even get past the second set of wards to fuck with us on his own. Come on Pete, I know they’re third rate magicians at best but even they could do better than this.” Quentin considered voicing his defense, but, he was the one tied to a chair. He groaned nonetheless, though it went unnoticed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I- okay that’s fair but, when I found him he was on the phone with whoever sent him on the job. So, once he was out I told him to come and we could negotiate terms for handing him back alive.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pete did seem to have some of his particular brand of sleazy confidence back, and Marina hummed in something that might have been approval. "Alright. And you confirmed that’s who he was talking to?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, no, but who else would he have called?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And the sound she made next made it clear any approval he may have garnered was gone just as fast. Her footsteps traveled across the concrete again, stopping closer to Quentin than he would have liked. Fuck, maybe he should have kept his eyes open, brightness be damned. He could feel her breathing by his ear. As far as intimidation checks went, she had definitely rolled high on hers, and his AC was woefully outmatched. “You’d better be worth the fucking effort, Five.” She exhaled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marina moved behind him, Pete trailing close behind with an exasperated "Marina, come on-". The pair possibly rounded a corner. Their voices were muffled regardless. </span>
  <span>Wait- did Pete just say he'd taken his phone? He'd- oh god, he'd talked to Eliot. Quentin's mouth went dry. He felt like throwing up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their conversation continued, but Quentin couldn’t make sense of their discussion from the few words he was able to piece together. It was like playing reverse mad libs, where instead of the story having a few blanks here and there, he was trying to build a story around “the” and “but” and “you’d better not have fucked this up”. Quentin pulled at his wrists again, though he wasn’t sure why. They hadn’t shown any give yet, and all he had accomplished was adding chafing to his list of injuries. Over his shoulder, he heard Marina ask “So do you think he’ll show up himself, or send a middle man?” Right, they were strategizing, that made sense. These were people who actually made plans, and they wanted one for when Matt showed up. Except he wasn’t coming, and if Eliot had any sense whatsoever, he would follow suit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Knowing that did nothing to negate the yearning he felt, the pathetic hope that Eliot would show up anyways.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without warning, something in the room snapped like a rubber band. The lights blinked in unison, and Pete and Marina shuffled about behind him. The charge of magic that had been in the air, imperceptible once one was accustomed to it, had dropped out. “Did someone just drop our fucking wards?” That one was Marina, sounding more annoyed than worried, though both emotions were present. At least, he assumed they were. The ringing in his ears had gone down, but the distortion was still there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, that would be me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin snapped his head upwards. He was half convinced he was hearing things, but- Eliot was </span>
  <em>
    <span>there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>standing in the steel framed threshold. His vest and tie might as well have been armor to Quentin’s disoriented brain, his unaffected stance and steely gaze a magnificent steed. Without thinking, he pressed as far forward as his binds would allow, strangely unashamed of how glad he was to see Eliot, how much he needed him here. “El-” he exhaled, wincing at the strain in his shoulders, and Eliot-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Walked right past him. He didn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>at him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He reeled back, craning his neck and desperate to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘hey, what the fuck Eliot?’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eliot himself stopped to his side, close enough that Quentin could smell the smoke and spiced cologne of the man and far enough that the ocean of confusion he felt could go unnoticed. He could just make out Marina stepping forward out of the corner of his eye. Her hands were firm on her hips. It reminded Quentin absently of a lecture Julia had gotten really into in their freshmen year, about how body language could shape character and how appearing confident was a step towards being confident. She had tried pushing him with this newfound knowledge; </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand tall, puff out your chest, stop hiding, walk like you’re Han Solo and then you’ll be Han Solo</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Only, that study had turned out to be complete horseshit, and Julia’s anecdotal evidence that it worked for her had failed to account for the fact that she had an ounce of self worth to begin with. Posturing like you commanded the world was no basis for actually commanding the world, a conclusion which had been obvious in hindsight. But Marina’s stance was making him reconsider. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stared Eliot down, concluding her assessment with an unimpressed sound. “Was that supposed to be impressive? Because all I see is a guy who brought a sledgehammer to do a scalpel’s job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, if I wanted to take down your shitty little wards without you noticing, I would have. Being a sledgehammer was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Eliot chided. Quentin choked down a hitch in his breath as the two magicians stared each other down. He wondered if he was about to witness the proverbial match between unstoppable force and immovable object, and what it meant for him to be caught in the middle. He also wondered, feared, that Eliot had seen enough and  decided Quentin wasn’t worth his trouble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marina broke their silence first. "Well you're clearly not Ramos."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin looked back towards Eliot, hoping for; he wasn’t sure. A flicker of recognition, some reassurance that he wouldn’t just walk out, for him to even fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>look at him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He kept his gaze locked on Marina. "I'm not even going to pretend I know who that is."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a pause. Quentin assumed Marina was assessing Eliot, calculating something, though he couldn’t be sure. After a moment, she exhaled, audibly amused. "Oh, you're from-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's really not the point, can we get to why I'm here?" Eliot interrupted. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Or maybe Quentin’s malfunctioning brain was just trying to justify his staring. Anything could go at this point. For all his posturing and cold steel stares, Quentin couldn’t stop himself from being afraid for him. His display with the wards was impressive, sure, but he had no idea what Eliot was capable of; what level was he, what spells had his fucked-up mind wiping coven covered, what if he got seriously hurt coming here?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pete finally rounded the corner he and Marina had been planning from, interrupting Quentin’s train of thought with his very existence. He started to say something to Marina, before taking note of Eliot, doing a double take between the two, and brilliantly concluding- “ Wait, you're not Ramos." His boss scoffed, and if Quentin were a better man, he might have felt sorry for him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>covered that Pete. You’ve done enough to fuck tonight up, go home."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But we're still waiting for-" He faltered, but Marina cut him off. "No, we're not. Go home Pete," she hissed. Her partner, looking more lackey than right hand, huffed. Even Quentin could feel Marina’s stare boring into his skull as he left. Neither standing party spoke again until his footsteps had disappeared from down the hall, and they heard another door open and close. Considering that he was half unconscious and still tied to a chair, the lapse in negotiations felt extremely rude. Considering that he was half unconscious and still tied to a chair, he opted not to say anything about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To say that not being able to see what his captor was doing behind him was frustrating would have been the understatement to end all understatements. Eliot made no indications of moving, so it was unlikely that Marina had shifted from her position over his shoulder. Predator, meet prey. She made a clicking sound that was equal parts unimpressed and dismissive. "He doesn't know, does he."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I couldn't say what he does and doesn’t know.” Eliot replied, his voice honey smooth and unaffected. Honestly it was kind of pissing him off. And who didn’t know what? Could the two of them be more vague and ominous if they tried? “Not to rush you, but can we get to the part where you tell me what the fuck I’m here for? Not to kink shame, but your little dungeon is pretty shit. This setup doesn't look very safe, sane, or consensual." And- that fucking did it. Quentin’s fears that Eliot would decide he wasn’t worth the effort and would leave were replaced with fears that he had called the most useless person alive to help with a crisis. He hadn’t actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>called </span>
  </em>
  <span>for help with a crisis per say; why had he called Eliot? Desperation? Fear of dying alone? Just wanting to hear a friendly voice? Each conclusion felt dumber than the last, but none were </span>
  <span>as</span>
  <span> dumb as whatever conclusion Eliot had just come to. He looked up, squinting as his head spun again. Had the room always looked this fuzzy? Regardless, he grumbled. "What the actual fuck El?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Eliot looked at him. It was a split second thing, hardly a side-eye, but it had happened. As soon as any recognition, any reflection of</span>
  <em>
    <span> ‘we’re going to get out of this alright, ‘kay?’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>could pass through his eyes, it was blinked away. He turned his attention back to Marina. "Why don't we talk somewhere a little more private?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sight be damned, he could practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marina grinning. "And leave your friend bound and unsupervised? Now who's practicing bad top etiquette?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot smirked, but it was all wrong; forced, strained. "Fine. So what am I doing here?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You're here to save your boy, aren't you?" she replied with a pout. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s eyes narrowed. "He's not my boy."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And yet you're here."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a moment where Quentin swore he could see Eliot’s eye twitch, nearly imperceptible but there nonetheless. He stared forward, and Quentin could only assume Marina was staring back. The clack of her heels informed him that his assumption, as per usual, was entirely off. "Alright, I’m slightly impressed. Though, you classic assholes always did emphasize keeping cool even when running into the unknown, guns blazing. You have no idea what you’re doing here, do you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe the echo in the room had gotten worse, or maybe he was disoriented from his adrenaline finally crashing. That seemed unlikely, since he still felt like a bowstring without an arrow, pulled by someone careless who only wanted to see how far he could go before he broke, but that was beside the point. The actual point was that he had no idea if Marina was pacing, or moving closer. The actual point was that he couldn’t tell if that was more or less frustrating than not knowing what Eliot was thinking, or what to say to him. “That’s quite an assumption.” he deflected almost immediately, in a way that seemed so natural it almost hurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marina snorted. “Please, it really isn’t. Everything you’ve got going on screams Brakebills. So sure, you’re smart, but everything you know was handed to you. You’ve never had to plan for shit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe, but that doesn’t change that I know more than enough to leave your safe house defenseless, or did you already forget that little demonstration?” He replied with a shrug, as though the destruction he had wrought was inconsequential, as though it hadn’t left a feeling of static in the air that Quentin could still taste. Marina actually laughed out loud, further assuring Quentin that what he considered impressive must actually be pretty mundane.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, Pete’s already got those wards halfway back in place. And sure, you’ve got magic out the ass, but let’s not pretend you’ve got the upper hand here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And let’s not pretend you know why I’m here. Maybe I’m just curious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Curious would be a phone call tomorrow, not portaling in from upstate. Speaking of, any idea why Captain Incompetent would be breaking in here when he’s clearly got an ally with you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The break in their rapid fire was visible, as Eliot jolted back. He snapped his head to look down at Quentin, anger plain on his face. “You did what?” Quentin froze. He wanted to reply, to defend himself, to ask what the fuck sort of ally Eliot was supposed to be, and just how far his coven’s reputation apparently had spread. Only, he was already easily distracted on good days, and this was not a good day. Eliot was angry, clearly, but was he worried too? Quentin swore he saw concern, especially when he tried to vocalize- something, anything, and all that came out was a groan. What were they talking about again? Before he could ask, Eliot turned his focus back towards Marina and cleared his throat “Sorry, he did what?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, he tried, didn’t get very far-” She started, but Eliot cut her off nearly immediately.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually, new question, why the fuck should I believe anything you’re saying?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He heard her make a sort of thoughtful hum from behind him, or perhaps it was just ambient noise. “You shouldn’t,” she continued, “but I’m being straight up with you. Chucklefuck over here tried to get in, got caught, and ran. His entire safe house is on the line-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t really think they sent him-” he interjected again, only- he stopped with a rasp mid sentence, his eyes widening for a split second. Quentin turned his head around as far as he could, ignoring the lurch in his stomach, to see Marina stepping closer. Her hands were twisted before her, finishing the last few micro-movements of a series of tuts he didn’t recognize. “Don’t interrupt me again, ‘kay?” she replied, dropping her hands with an air of composed confidence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot narrowed his eyes in response. He raised his own hands and performed another tut that Quentin didn’t recognize, shorter and harsher than the one Marina had performed. It was deceptively simple, a twist of a single hand paired with a crossing of the middle and ring finger, but its effect was immediately apparent. She stopped mid step, gasping. Her hand started to make its way towards her throat, but she stopped the movement halfway. Instead her energy went towards staring down Eliot. Eliot, who hardly even blinked. Which was pretty damn impressive, given that Quentin wasn’t in the line of fire and even he wanted to wither away. Though he probably wasn’t a great judge right now. A few seconds passed, and Eliot dropped his hand, and his spell. Quentin’s own hands were shaking, he was getting lightheaded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you really want to threaten me?” she coughed, still somehow sounding commanding despite the shake in her voice. Eliot turned his hands again, performing what Quentin could only guess was a counter spell to whatever had muted him. “If I wanted to threaten you,” he retorted  “you’d know. So how about-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever scathing barb Eliot had prepared was lost to Quentin’s ears. Without warning, he lurched to the side, the bolts on the legs of his chair the only thing keeping him upright, and heaved, bile and the blood he had swallowed earlier spilling onto the concrete foundation between coughs. His shoulders wanted to curl forward, to protect his exposed underbelly from whatever threat was next, his wrists wanted to snap under the pressure of being pulled forward. Overall, he wanted to sleep for a month, and maybe cry. His ears were ringing </span>
  <em>
    <span>again,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but just under the high tone he could swear he heard Eliot shushing in his ear, low soothing noises. He definitely felt his hand stroking back and forth across his shoulder. Quentin wanted to lean into the touch, he wanted everything to stop hurting more. He may or may not have whined </span>
  <em>
    <span>“El”</span>
  </em>
  <span> breathlessly at the contact, the jury was out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marina scoffed, bringing his mind back to reality. “If you’re done coddling your dipshit, the point is that it doesn’t really matter whether or not they sent him. He’s their pledge, and right now his ass is ours, so they’re all on the line. Examples have to be made, I’m sure you’ve seen Fogg make more than a few yourself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He felt Eliot flinch, but his hand stayed in place at least. “You talk a lot of shit about classical training for an alumnus.</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Except I’m not, I got kicked out. I’m sure you can see where this is going.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be fucking serious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Quentin couldn’t take it anymore. His forehead was pounding, his throat burning with the acid he couldn’t quite spit out, and he’d felt like someone had cast daze on him and he’d failed every last one of his will saves since waking up. On top of that, it seemed more and more like Eliot and Marina were speaking in fucking code; fog? Classical training? Break bills? “What the fuck are you guys talking about?”  he interrupted with a cough.</span>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a pause. A single moment of excruciating silence while Eliot and Marina stared at him. For Marina, it almost seemed like she was only just remembering that he could speak. Fair, he was only just remembering himself. Then she laughed, bright and ringing and completely tonally inconsistent with this cold ass room- which was strangely tonally consistent with all the rumours he’s heard of the top hedge in the city. “Wait, he doesn’t-, holy shit, and I thought he was way out of his depth before.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, it’s hilarious,” Eliot deadpanned as he stood back up. If he heard Quentin whine at the loss of contact, he didn’t show it. “I always thought a little humor made any extortion better, now back on topic </span>
  <em>
    <span>are you insane</span>
  </em>
  <span>? We both know I can’t get you on site.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, your boyfriend’s life isn’t worth it?” She cooed innocently, despite her demand being enough that Eliot was clearly shaken, though he was playing at composure rather well. His only serious tell was the way he brushed his curls out of his forehead; he typically hated anyone or anything touching his hair after it had been styled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, if you wanted him dead I’m sure you have a dozen vivisection spells on hand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You really want to try me?” Marina continued, and- when had she circled around him? She stalked across the small room, just as predatory as before and just as in control. He shuddered. “If anyone from McNaughton's had shown up, I would have put them in their place and gut him to prove a point. You’ve just made him more valuable as leverage.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot sighed, deflating slightly. “My previous point still stands, I can’t get you past those wards.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, you probably can’t.” She hummed. “Hell, I probably couldn’t and I was bringing in a whole team to fuck them up from a half dozen different points. ButI don’t need to get back in, I just want my fucking memory box.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s still a pretty big ask.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But is it really? Here’s my offer; you get back what Fogg took from me, and I let you two leave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Or I just leave with him now.” Eliot snapped. He actually sounded worried, finally, though the response he was met with was an unimpressed laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but then we’d come after him, and you, and you’d get to explain to the Dean why a group of angry hedges want your head. I’m sure whatever explanation you could come up with wouldn’t end with you out on your ass, wouldn’t you agree?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s jaw tensed. At least, Quentin thought it did. It was getting hard to focus. He stepped towards her, taking full advantage of his height to paint an intimidating portrait. She didn’t even flinch. “What makes you think I won’t kill you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her reply was a dismissive hand wave, one that pushed him a few inches back. “You don’t have it in you. You couldn’t even hold a choke for five seconds.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot stepped back, turning to pace the room. He felt like he could hardly breathe; stuck between the need to ask what the fuck was going on, to ask Eliot how he could help like this wasn’t all his fault to begin with, and his fear of saying something stupid and making this situation even worse. El was getting even worse, subtle lines of worry appearing around his eyes. This was never supposed to happen. What the fuck was wrong with him? It was one thing if Quentin ruined his own life, got caught crossing another safe house and had to face the consequences, but now Eliot was paying for it, all because he’d been dumb enough to call him. He still wasn’t even sure why he’d made that fucking call. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, Eliot was just a few feet away, his back to both himself and Marina, his hands locked in place at his hips. Despite his demeanor; his artfully disarrayed hair, his stylish vests and the determined set of his shoulders, he looked like shit. He looked like shit and it was all his fault. “El, I’m sor-” he started, but was interrupted by Eliot turning back around. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Quentin, stop talking.” he snapped, before putting his attention back on Marina. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see what I can do, but you know I can’t promise anything. And I’m leaving with him tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine. I want a word as bond.” She hummed. Quentin had no idea what that meant, but given Eliot’s stagger, it had to be way more serious than her nonchalance suggested.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not fucking happening.” he balked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then you’re not leaving with him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stared at one another for a moment, Quentin caught in the middle. Was being stuck in a tug-of-war, possibly over his life, supposed to be this exhausting? Maybe he could close his eyes, just for a moment. “Look, I can wait all night, but the longer you hesitate, the worse your boy gets, You know what you have to do.” Marina said. Who was getting worse? What had she been talking about again? A moment passed, and he might have heard Eliot say “Fine, let’s get this over with-”. Eliot was- right, Eliot was here, everything was going to be fine. There were footsteps around him, echoing off the walls of the room- wait, was this a meat locker?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That didn’t really seem to matter much, in the grand scheme of things. He was exhausted. Maybe he could close his eyes, just for a moment…</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, get up, I’ve got you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The voice in his ear was strained, tense. It ripped him from the quiet comfort of the backs of his eyelids, and- where- where was he? Quentin blinked, then squinted against the lights. There was one fluorescent fixture flickering in the corner, and each flash of it felt like a knife in his eye. He was- he was being pulled upright. He was being pulled up by Eliot, what was Eliot doing- Marina. The safe house. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God </span>
  </em>
  <span>his head hurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot pulled Quentin’s arm over his own, much taller shoulders. Maybe it was the scream along his deltoid, or maybe it was the sensation of glass shattering under his skin when he put any weight on his ankle. One or the other, El pulled him up and his body tried its damndest to crash down. He yelped, only remaining upright thanks to Eliot’s steel grip on his waist. He might have heard a whisper of </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘shh, it’s alright, it’s going to be okay’</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his ear as he whimpered. He might have been lost in his own wishful thinking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well boys, it has been a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleasure </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing business with you.” A voice behind him remarked. Right, they were still at Marina’s...interrogation room? Freezer? Back room of the safe house he hadn’t seen initially? Did it really matter? He was getting out of here, he wasn’t alone- what was a word as bond? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, go to hell.” Eliot grunted, half dragging-half carrying Quentin to the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, I’ll see you there soon enough.” she replied with a grin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hallway was dark. Too dark, but at least the flickering was gone. Maybe he could just lean into Eliot and disappear, worry about all of his questions later. That would require a full personality transplant, but it was a nice thought. They stumbled through the corridor, Eliot alternating between soothing and ignoring his winces of pain. He kept trying to help, to not be entirely dead weight, but his ankle kept screaming whenever he stepped on it and he couldn’t recall how he injured it to begin with. He just remembered running. Actually, that tracked, he’d always hated running. They might have turned a corner or two; it was hard to keep track, and all the walls looked the same. How long had they been walking? Whatever the answer, it was long enough for Eliot to round one more turn, putting them face to face with a set of open, corrugated steel rolling warehouse doors. Definitely not the safe house, then. At least the outside air was helping to clear his head, he hoped.Everything was still a bit fuzzy, but it was dark, and only a few street lights outside the warehouse were working.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot pulled them along the street, Quentin struggling to keep up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Just a little further”</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he muttered, more to himself than to Quentin it seemed. There were a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue; </span>
  <em>
    <span>a little further to what, why did you come, what did Marina want from you, how much worse did I make </span>
  </em>
  <span>everything</span>
  <em>
    <span>?</span>
  </em>
  <span> But, he had yet to get past “what” or “why” before another groan or stumble would overtake his senses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You've </span>
  <em>
    <span>got </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be kidding." Eliot said- wait, that wasn’t Eliot’s voice. It was too rough, too irritated, and most notably, coming from several feet ahead and not right next to him. Quentin looked up, drawing his attention away from Eliot’s grasp for the first time since they got out of the building. The man before them was- well, the first thing that came to mind was that he looked annoyed. He was among the rare humans who could make a paisley shirt open enough to expose the tan expanse of his chest and a scarf look somehow </span>
  <em>
    <span>intimidating</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or maybe it was just that he was tall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to hear it.” Eliot replied. He didn’t still or falter, so the new guy was probably a friend? His tone was clear, he wasn’t open for a conversation, but the stranger showed no signs of caring.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Like hell you don’t want to hear it, you did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>just drag me out here for- for whatever super secret meeting this is. What the hell even is this?” He stepped back, turned away in frustration, and turned back to resume yelling. Quentin was dizzy just watching him. “You go in and some guy comes out and wards the place to hell and back, and I’m just supposed to stand here like a jackass? The fuck?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s a hedge safe house Penny, please drop it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The newcomer, Penny’s, eyes widened. “A- No, fuck you. I get it, shits fucked, but do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>tell me to drop it when I’m out here because you can’t handle your own shit. I’m not getting expelled for you man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Quentin had one talent, it was not knowing when to shut up. Still, everything about this guy screamed ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t give a fuck about any of you</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, and here he was talking about not wanting to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>expelled</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He chuckled, even though the movement made him feel like someone had shoved a pipe in his sinuses. “Okay Hermione.” he quipped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, was I talking to you nerd?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Under any other context, Quentin would have wilted under the look possibly-Penny gave him. It was a perfect combination of scrutiny and disappointment and exasperation, one that would have put any of his high school bullies to shame. But right now, he couldn’t quite find it in himself to be bothered. “You’re the one who got the reference” he slurred, his head lolling slightly to the side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s a cultural touchstone, and- nevermind why am I even talking to you?” he snapped, before looking back at Quentin’s current physical support structure. “Eliot, we need to get him to a fucking hospital.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, that’s a great idea, a police report is exactly what we need right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot and Penny continued to argue, or maybe they didn’t. All Quentin knew was that a switch within him had been flipped. He felt frozen. Hospitals were- it was one thing when he checked himself in to one. He knew where to go and what pills to take and to talk just enough at group that he started feeling human again without saying so much that they reviewed his case and started pushing for him to stay indefinitely. And now- nothing felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His thoughts and vision were both fuzzy around the edges, and nothing was coming together quite right, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>where was he again? </span>
  </em>
  <span>What if his brain really had broken this time, and they never let him leave? Quentin’s head spun. He was hyperventilating, had </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> hyperventilating. Something shifted under his hand. It was Eliot’s arm; had he really been clutching it that tightly? He couldn’t go back to the hospital, not now, not when- “I- I can’t” he wheezed out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t tell how long he stood there, clinging to Eliot’s forearm and reminding his lungs that they weren’t supposed to function like malfunctioning pistons. It was probably only a few seconds. He probably didn’t really care. At least Eliot made no show of moving, and Penny only shifted uncomfortably.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, no hospitals,” Penny said a moment later, breaking their silence. “You got a place in mind?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot tensed. “I’m- I’m thinking alright? I don’t- there’s- no that won’t- I-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was panicking. And if Eliot was panicking, they were all fucked. They were all fucked and it was his fault and now he was dragging Eliot and his friend down with him. Maybe they could all share a room in whatever ward they were placed in. Suddenly Quentin was lurched forward, pulling him from his thoughts. Penny had grabbed his shoulder, Eliot’s too by the look of things. He closed his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. Quentin blinked, but before he could ask what he was doing, Penny spoke. “I got it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ground was ripped out from underneath him. He was a little plastic cartridge, trapped in one of those pneumatic vacuum systems he had thought were so cool when he was a little kid being dragged to the bank drive-through with his dad. Only he was being pulled apart in every direction, on a level that felt practically molecular. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was over as soon as it started. He collapsed in a heap on a hardwood floor in a dark entry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot stumbled slightly, but stayed upright. “We’re at-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Margo’s apartment,” Penny interrupted. “Yeah,I pulled the location from your head.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s...a little invasive.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever, you’re welcome.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ground may have returned but everything was spinning again, and it was so much worse than before. This wasn’t the disorientation of a few too many drinks, or even the aftermath of the one and only time he had gone to the New Jersey State Fair; the fateful day where Julia had talked her group of friends into including him when they got their unlimited ride wristbands. He had been successfully pressured into going onto each and every whirling behemoth, subjected his body to more poorly constructed g-forces and high dives than was likely safe for anyone, and only cried once despite what other sources would say. That night, he hadn’t been able to sleep for the feeling that everything was still turning about him. This was so much worse. This was his gravitational pull moving sideways and trying to press him to the wall, while weights dragged his limbs down to the core of the planet and lights spun about his head for good measure. This reminded him too much of how he imagined it felt to die. This was hell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least he managed to roll onto his forearms before heaving all over the floor. Absently, he noted that the floors looked nice, well maintained- probably expensive. Hopefully the owner- Margo?- would be forgiving of the situation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He heard a murmured “oh fuck” over his shoulder, then Eliot moving to the ground with him. His hands trembled as they pulled Quentin's hair from his face. They were so warm, and he was shaking. Spending the last… however long in a freezer must have been catching up with him. That was definitely the only reason he leaned into the touch.  Still, the hand across his forehead and gentle strokes across his shoulders were more than worth the intermittent demands of </span>
  <em>
    <span>“What the hell were you doing?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you even know what you've gotten into?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>It felt- about as safe as anything had in the last week, and he was pretty sure Eliot wasn’t looking for an actual answer, even if he had known what to say. Now he just had to remember how to breathe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a few minutes; ten or fifty, did it matter?- Eliot was warm and he was safe and maybe he could burrow his way into Eliot’s chest and never leave, and that would be fine, new footsteps entered his field of vision. Right, Penny was still here. Eliot stood up, and Quentin only barely swallowed his instinctive whimper. At least he didn’t seem to expect Quentin to pull himself from the protective shell his spine had become. There was the sound of rustling papers, Penny handing something to Eliot? Actually, shoving was probably more likely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s this?” Eliot asked, the familiar comfort of pages being flipped through audible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Modified Mann Reveal. I asked a friend  to come up with a version for checking head trauma.” Penny replied. Quentin had yet to get a good read on him, and found him- mostly confusing. He was frustrated, irritable, and standoffish. He clearly didn’t want to be here. But, they were somewhere safe- at least he assumed they were- and he was still helping. “It’s a homebrew, and she literally just threw it together, so you’ll need to double check the circumstances, but she knows her shit, I’m sure it’s solid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This...this looks pretty good...thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome. If anyone asks, you fell and I’ve got you at the Consciousness Building for observation.” His response was firm, like he really didn’t care if Eliot had a protest towards his cover story, and that no one would question it by sheer force of his personality. Quentin had no idea what a consciousness building even was and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t want to question him. “Also, you’d better have paid attention to Lipson’s unit, I already checked the whole place out and they don’t even have fucking bandaids in the bathroom. I</span>
  <em>
    <span> do not</span>
  </em>
  <span> understand rich people.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Noted.” Eliot replied. Which was- well, it was an answer, if not a helpful one, as Quentin had understood maybe half of what Penny had said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And one last thing-” He continued, cutting into any additional dead air Eliot may have had to speak. “I don’t know what you’re up to and really I don’t care. But once he’s up again you need to teach him some fucking mental wards.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not teaching him anything-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bull. Shit. What part of</span>
  <em>
    <span> ‘he doesn’t have any wards’</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you missing? Also, his ankle is all sorts of fucked, fix it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin blinked. Had he told Penny about his ankle? Come to think of it, had he even mentioned it to Eliot? And what did he mean by ‘mental wards’- oh. Could Penny read minds? Was mind reading actually a thing? Were all his irrational fears that everyone around him could hear what a loser he was at all times actually somewhat valid? As if his night hadn’t been exciting enough already.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to help?” Eliot retorted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nah man, I’m not your fucking uber. I’m outta her, and I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>getting dragged any further into whatever this is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Penny, I-” Quentin looked up, not sure what he hoped to see. Maybe Eliot coming back down to lie with him on the floor, puddle of bile be damned, or hell maybe Julia, fresh out of nowhere with her first aid knowledge from Girl Scout camp, willing to be there and help like she had so many times before, and to ask why later. Would Julia and Eliot get along? He couldn’t decide. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless, all he saw was Eliot, still facing the doorway, looking at a Penny who disappeared a blink later. Great, he was probably a mind reader </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>he could teleport.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He probably stayed there, barely balancing on his knees and forearms, staring at Eliot’s back for an inappropriate amount of time. It was one of those things that was easy to lose awareness of, until the subject of your gaze turned around, watching with equal parts frustration and concern, and stepped back towards you. Quentin flushed, though out of embarrassment or sheer neediness he couldn’t say. At least, he hoped, it was dark enough that Eliot wouldn’t see.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot knelt next to him, still somehow moving smoothly despite the tremble in his hand. Quentin didn’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it, or cry at the thought of what he must have seen before to still be so calm. He stilled by Quentin’s side, exhaled, his fist just barely relaxing by Quentin’s own hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you think you can walk? Just a little further?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Could he? It was a pretty big </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but- he nodded. It was a short gesture, not enough to make the room spin again, but enough that Eliot noticed. He gripped Quentin’s bicep again, slowly pulling him halfway upright before draping said arm back across his shoulders. Getting his feet back under him was a process, to say the least. Quentin stumbled, dizziness and Eliot’s stupid comforting height working in tandem to throw him off balance, but he stayed upright by some miracle. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Eliot was warm. This was easy, he just had to take a few steps. Eliot was even holding most of his weight and- was he wearing a different cologne? He smelled earthy, muskier, faintly like the drinks from whatever party he had left to come save him. It was hard to ignore how much he wanted to stop and wrap himself in that scent. It was harder to ignore the pit of guilt reforming in his gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Side by side, they eventually made their way from the living room and into the nearest bedroom. Quentin looked up from Eliot’s feet- and stopped, realizing that this place looked way more expensive than the loft Julia has acquired for their ragtag trio. Everything was clean white walls  and delicate crown molding, dark hardwoods and furniture that was probably all vintage, and massive windows, which had their curtains not been closed, he was sure would look out onto the Harbor or the city skyline or some other view he could never afford. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Q?” Eliot asked to his side. Quentin shook his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “I- I really shouldn’t be here, is my nose still bleeding? I need to- I need to go, I’m going to-” He was shushed mid spiral, his words miraculously stopping despite having been pouring from his mouth at approximately a dozen words a second it seemed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, I promise,” Eliot reassured him, in a sort of tone Quentin usually associated with calming spooked animals. “Trust me, my friend never stays here. She really only keeps the place out of spite, because her father is willing to pay for it. She’d probably consider you bleeding on the sheets a bonus. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t quite sure he believed it- but this was Eliot. He’d already done so much, why wouldn’t Quentin at least trust him with this? He nodded. After a few stumbles and missteps, and only almost tripping over his and Eliot’s feet twice, Eliot helped lower him onto the bed. He was trapped in the confusing space between wanting to complain that he could take care of himself, and the acute awareness and all he wanted was more of Eliot’s grip on the back of his neck as he lowered him into an approximately seated position on the abundance of pillows. Fuck, was </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything </span>
  </em>
  <span>on this bed memory foam? He turned back towards Eliot, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>are you sure this is really okay?’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the tip of his tongue, only Eliot was already turning away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin could feel his brain stall. He was- fuck, Eliot was leaving him. He had gotten him somewhere safe and now he was cutting his losses, because Quentin had already ruined his life enough, and he was going to go anywhere else and find a way out of whatever deal he’d made with Marina, and Quentin was going to be left here on his own, and he wasn’t going to get better, and whoever really owned this apartment would come back and find him and he would be arrested for breaking and entering and his dad would die with his only kid in prison and-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Eliot reappeared in the doorway with a glass of water and the spell Penny had handed him earlier. That made more sense. His shoulders were tense, his entire body like a guitar string ready to snap. There was a fire in his eyes, an unmistakable anger. Whether it was directed at Quentin, the universe, or for some unfathomable reason, himself, he couldn’t say. But it did seem to extinguish when he saw Quentin was staring at him. Exhaustion wasn’t necessarily the best replacement, but Quentin could relate wholeheartedly. He crossed the room in two strides and pressed the glass forward in silent command to drink. Quentin swallowed. This felt so close to that first- how did one categorize an ill planned outing to a nightclub where one got fucked up on what were in hindsight probably magic drugs? Not a date, but not quite a casual get together either. That first, </span>
  <em>
    <span>outing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he guessed. He had been completely out of his mind, and Eliot had been- he’d been better than most anyone Quentin had known before, but it was all off now. He was too quiet, too firm, and Quentin was probably too eager to fix what he had inevitably broken. He just didn’t know how.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He managed to finish about half the glass before Eliot took it back and placed it on the end table. Who the hell kept coasters on their bedroom end tables? Eliot’s friend, apparently. Once the glass was down, he brushed Quentin’s hair from his forehead. It must have been disgusting, still sweat slick and bloody, but if Eliot minded, he didn’t show it. Or if he did, Quentin didn’t notice because he had to close his eyes and lean into the touch like the needy creature he was. Almost as soon as he began, Eliot pulled his hand away. And- he couldn’t go again, not yet, not now. He didn’t think, he just grasped onto the first thing his hands could find- Eliot’s forearms, as it so happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please- please don’t go.” He pleaded. The rasp in his voice was terrible. And he was grateful for the absence of mirrors before him. At least he wouldn’t have to confirm whether he looked or sounded more pathetic. Eliot swallowed, mouth taught and eyes almost- sorrowful, before nodding gently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going anywhere Q. But, I do need my hands now, alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right. Magic. Quentin gripped tighter for just a second before dropping his hands. He wanted to drop his gaze too, but couldn’t. He didn’t deserve to watch Eliot cast, not after dragging him into- he didn’t even know, but clearly nothing good, but there was something mesmerizing about the way he cast. Maybe all magic was like that, or maybe it was just Eliot. Maybe it didn’t matter, he could try to enjoy it while it lasted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He twisted his hands gently, once, twice, then formed a rectangle with his thumbs and index fingers and peered through them. His gaze was scrutinizing, to say the least. After a moment he hummed in frustration. “Christ, this is bad. What the hell were you thinking Quentin?” He spat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin balked, finally lowering his eyes. “I was desperate-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Eliot interrupted, his agitation growing. He blinked, turning back to Eliot. For a moment, he swore he saw his own fear reflected back at him. He hesitated. “El, you- I- I’d only just gotten you back. What was I supposed to do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s response was silence. It seemed for a moment like maybe he was just as lost as Quentin, which- realistically, made sense, but felt impossible. After a moment, Eliot sighed, before beginning a new series of tuts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to take care of your smaller injuries first. Your cuts, abrasions. They’re superficial, but I haven’t done much healing magic, so I’d rather warm up a bit before I do anything about your concussion.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nodded slowly. Concussion, that- that made a lot of sense, in hindsight. After another look, Eliot began casting. It seemed to be tedious work, gently pulling and pushing at threads of magic and coaxing the tissue to knit back together. Quentin winced as he moved from injury to injury, starting with the split in his lip, the cartilage in his nose he hadn’t noticed was displaced, the bruising along his shoulder; but with each flinch and grimace, there was a following warmth, a soothing push that seemed to seep through to his bones. His world was still mostly fuzzy edges surrounding a black and blue core, but the unfamiliar hum of Eliot’s magic was a welcome addition. Despite the injuries that made this necessary to begin with, Quentin could himself relax into Eliot’s casting. It was the one thing he could focus on that felt good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, he barely bit back a laugh between his involuntary winces. Here he was, finally getting to see some of those thrice damned healing spells he had needed so badly, and all he’d had to do was get the shit beaten out of himself and possibly ruin someone else’s life in the process. Brava, well done, gold star for Coldwater.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a rhythm to Eliot’s work, a clear pattern. Assess, hum noncommittally, cast, repeat. The quiet had been comforting when his pain was keeping him on the edge of awareness, but the longer it went on the more unnerved it left Quentin. Eliot had barely so much as looked from his own hands since starting. Not that he could entirely blame him, they were incredible hands, and- that was a really strange thought to be having right now. Quentin shuddered as those hands made their way to his ankle. He was finally crashing enough for the discomfort of the silence to set in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, um, how much trouble did I just get you in with your safe house?” He managed, knowing the question was pointless before it even left his lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To be determined.” Eliot clipped. He drew a line along Quentin’s ribs with his left hand, then did some precise tut with his right that Quentin couldn’t quite follow, and- </span>
  <em>
    <span>“fuck!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quentin hissed. Whatever had happened under his skin, some snapping of tendons or realigning of bones left the entire right side of his body recoiling. Eliot winced sympathetically, pulling his hand away as Quentin tried to ease into the aftereffect of the casting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Healing isn’t exactly my discipline,” he laughed humorlessly. “Could be worse though, at least you’re not stuck with an illusionist trying to treat you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin frowned at that. Discipline was just another term that would have to go on his growing list of </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘things to ask Eliot what the fuck he was talking about once his brain felt less like a scrambled egg</span>
  </em>
  <span>’. He just had to wait for the right time. Only, waiting for the right time had been half of what had gotten both of them into this mess, hadn’t it? He swallowed. The gentle heat of Eliot’s spell was starting to seep in, leaving a gentle tingle in its wake across his bones. It should have felt weird, it should have felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>extremely </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking weird. Instead, it was somehow grounding. He could do this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s Brakebills?” He finally asked. Eliot paused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s...Quentin I-” He trailed off.  He still wouldn’t look at Quentin, but at least he was looking up now. Quentin deflated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, you can’t tell me, got it.” He pressed back into the headboard, tucking his knees towards his chest. His head still felt too heavy for his body, but at least everything else seemed to be moving correctly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not fair.” Eliot exhaled. He turned and half sat, half collapsed into the space between the edge of the mattress and Quentin’s feet. For once, all his pretenses were gone. He wore his weariness on full display, like it was something familiar. The lines of his face were ever graceful, but the depths of them spoke of having been down this road before, of almost welcoming the journey for its familiarity. Quentin was almost grateful for Eliot’s lack of eye contact. He didn’t know if he could handle the full force of whatever Eliot bore. He also knew he was still more out of it than he thought if he was really going to wax poetic over a few creases around Eliot’s- frankly, stupidly perfect mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What is?” he chortled about as humorlessly as Eliot had earlier, then paused. “Are you mad at me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot’s hands tensed for a moment, before he continued. “I’m mad at a lot of things right now.” The calm of his voice was in opposition with his words. Though, perhaps his anger just came in the flavor of exhaustion, as opposed to the near-frenetic mania Quentin was so accustomed to. “I suppose I am, a little, but you really didn’t know what you were doing and I suppose I didn’t help. So, I’m mad at myself more. I’m fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>livid </span>
  </em>
  <span>with Hedge Bitch back there and her demands-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“About that, what’s a word as bond?” he interrupted before he could stop himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Exactly what it sounds like.” Eliot sighed, shifting his position to face Quentin fully. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, like time was an illusion meant only to drag on as long as possible for it’s chosen victims and the universe had set its eyes on Eliot for reasons unknown. Quentin wanted to lean forward, to ease that exhaustion from under his eyes. Would Eliot even let him? The thought was a stupid one, he let it pass. “It’s a spell binding two people under a set of terms and conditions that has thus far been impossible for any master magician in history to break. You can find loopholes, sure, but this one was pretty straightforward and I didn’t exactly have much time to set any of my own terms.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin looked down, his selfish need to fix this turning to acid in his throat. “I’m sorry-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t.” Eliot cut him off, finally looking him in the eye. “ You didn’t ask me to show up.” Something passed over Eliot’s eyes. Quentin wanted to call it sincerity. Maybe for a minute, he could believe he wasn’t imagining it. Eliot cleared his throat and moved his attention to Quentin’s ankle. “This is going to hurt a bit, brace yourself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And- yeah, it did, but no more than anything else had since they had dropped into this apartment, which would have felt like walking into a five star spa even without the contrast of his earlier- was it an interrogation if you captor didn’t want any information out of you, and didn’t care what you said? The process was much the same as it had been when Eliot cast on his ribs; draw, tut, snap. The resulting snap was stronger, and Quentin’s yelp a bit louder, but at least he felt like he could walk again if he had to. Eliot’s silently mouthed ‘sorry’ and soothing touch were appreciated nonetheless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin sighed. “I...I don’t actually know why I called you. I was just- I was just scared.” It was the truth, and the worst reason he could think of.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.” He replied plainly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence that befell the room was still palpable, but less uncomfortable. Eliot finished a few additional tuts, their effects unknown to Quentin but their charge flickering between them nonetheless. Maybe he was just sensitive to any casting in this state, or maybe Eliot just had that effect on him. He suspected he already knew the answer regardless of willingness to admit it. Eliot scooted closer to him, his hip very nearly touching Quentin’s own, his hands just inches away. Eliot was always so carefree, so casual with touch. Why wasn’t he touching him now? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He leaned a little closer to where Eliot sat; that was-probably an invasion of personal space  or something, but- he wouldn’t mind, would he? Unless he did. Quentin started to shift back, but Eliot looked up first, pinning him in place with his stare.  “Alright, I can’t make your concussion go away, but I can alleviate a lot of the symptoms, make the recovery easier.” He paused, as though he were waiting for some affirmation. Quentin nodded a little absently. “It’s cooperative magic, but your part is easy,” he continued.  “You just need to repeat poppers eighteen and twenty-one while I take care of the rest, can you do that?” He shifted back, giving Quentin a little more room to observe as he demonstrated the two movements. It took a couple of attempts, and Eliot corrected the placement of his fingers once, but after a few minutes of practice he seemed content. “Good, you’re set.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot nodded his affirmation to start, and Quentin moved back into the repetition. The two tuts were a comforting, sort of circular gesture. They reminded him a lot of some of the stimming he used to do in his early college years, before anyone had found quite the right cocktail of medication for his anxieties and moderate ADHD. Once his hands were settled in their rhythm, Eliot began to work. And it was-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin had done some cooperative casting back at the safe house. Only a few times, and never for anything significant. Mostly, he just provided some extra juice for a few small rituals, and used an assist sometimes when learning a new spell. While this was new to him, he wasn’t exactly a stranger to the ways that magic and sensation intermingled during a cooperative cast. He knew that after accomplishing a minor levitation with Thomas’s help, he could smell worn leather and old dry erase markers, and when he’d helped Kim with a spell to not lose her motorcycle keys again, the floating sensation he’d been left with was accompanied by the taste of something floral. He hadn’t had the nerve to ask what they felt from him, but he wasn’t entirely unaware of how weird cooperative spellwork could be. He was entirely unprepared for the ocean that was Eliot Waugh to come crashing into him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as Eliot tapped into his magic, Quentin closed his eyes reflexively. It didn’t make any difference, everything was so- it was so bright. His eyelids were flooded with warm amber lights, but the lights had nothing on Eliot’s hold over the rest of his senses. This oversized, overpriced apartment bedroom suddenly smelled like expensive wine and lingering smoke, and the Earth after the skies had poured their rage over a barren and dry expanse. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Petrichor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his brain supplied. The tip of his tongue was laced with scotch and sweat, and he could swear the thrum in his veins was pounding in perfect time with Eliot’s heartbeat. He was spinning, he was fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>floating</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his ears were ringing with an indecipherable sound that he could only describe as ‘El’, and-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s eyes flew open. And he felt safe. How could he have expected anything else, this was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliot </span>
  </em>
  <span>for fuck’s sake. The room spun around him, from his concussion or their casting, Quentin didn’t know and frankly, he didn’t care. Eliot lowered his hands, the hum of magic around them still running strong despite the spell's completion. He was- he was so strong, and brave, far braver than Quentin knew he could ever be. And for a moment, he grinned, just as caught in the euphoria of his spell as Quentin. Quentin’s chest ached. For a moment, everything just felt right, and maybe- maybe that moment could go on a little longer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he could stop himself, he pushed forward, and pressed his lips against Eliot’s. They were </span>
</p><p>
  <span>dryer than he expected, a little chapped, not that Quentin suspected his own were much better, and Quentin felt him still. He panicked, but before he could pull back Eliot gripped the back of his neck, pulling him in closer. Eliot licked at Quentin’s lips, and he melted, parting them open with no resistance, inviting that tongue to trace along his teeth. His hands floundered at his sides for a moment before settling onto Eliot’s forearms, gripping for what felt like his life. Quentin had no doubts Eliot could feel the heat of his flush where his grip remained at the base of his skull, where his nose pressed into Quentin’s cheek, just as easily as he could feel Eliot panting against the side of his mouth when he inched back for breath. He keened into Eliot’s mouth when he came back to reclaim his lips, and only stopped himself from melting further long enough to push Eliot back and climb into his lap. He was warm, god he was so warm, and Quentin </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoped </span>
  </em>
  <span>he knew how much he needed him. Eliot’s hand moved from his neck, his thumb stroking across Quentin’s cheek, wiping away tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed, eventually  stopping on his shoulder. Quentin eased into the touch, tried to press closer. He- </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he needed to be in contact with as much of Eliot as possible, he needed-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He needed Eliot to not pull back, to not use that damned grip of his to keep him from moving with him. Quentin blinked. Had he done something wrong? All he’d done was- dread sunk in, snuffing out the bliss that had filled his lungs seconds before. Right, he hadn’t done anything wrong, just dragged someone who was supposed to be his friend out in the middle of the night to a hostage negotiation, got them caught in an unbreakable vow, and kissed them without their consent. Could he have been more selfish if he tried?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Flinching, he realized he was afraid to look Eliot in the eye. Quentin wasn’t sure what he expected to find; disgust, pity, or possibly worst, apathy. Maybe he could be a coward just a little longer. Maybe he should just rip the bandaid off and get it over with. After a moment, he opted for the latter. But Eliot seemed- not upset, thankfully, just caught off guard. Quentin flushed again when he realized Eliot had kissed him just as desperately. He hadn’t imagined that, had he? The tremble of his lip where he could still feel Eliot’s gentle bite said otherwise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Any surprise Eliot’s expression held was blinked away a moment later, replaced with his signature cool affectation, the one Quentin was rapidly beginning to recognize as the mask it was. He just wished he knew what he was hiding. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, you seem to be feeling better…” Eliot stated with a soft grin. He pushed Quentin back,  began to stand up and- wait, he wasn’t leaving, was he? ““I’ll be- I’ll be right outside. Don’t worry, I’ll come wake you up every few hours..Unless that’s a misconception, I should probably look that up.” He continued towards the door, and Quentin’s chest seized again, though with an entirely new context.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait, I-” he called. Eliot stopped in the doorway, turning halfway back. Maybe Quentin should have been more embarrassed about coming across as desperate, but fuck it, he had crossed that line hours ago, and if he was right, Eliot wanted this too. If he was wrong- well, he and his self loathing were great friends, they could settle in for the night no problem, “Please stay? I won’t- I just don’t want to be alone, I’m sorry if I-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Quentin-” he sighed, stopping him from going down a full rambling spiral. Still, there was a fondness to his voice, and he came halfway back “It’s alright, cooperative magic is- it’s intense. But I can go, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinked. That didn’t make any sense, Eliot wasn’t the one who had-. “Why would I be uncomfortable?” He asked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Eliot had a response, he didn’t seem inclined to share it. But after shaking his hands out, he did stride back, so Quentin wasn’t inclined to push either. He took off his vest and tie, draping them over the edge of a dresser Quentin had somehow managed to completely ignore the entire time they had been in here. After fumbling with his shoes, Eliot climbed in next to him. The room was warm enough, or maybe that was just Eliot’s presence, that they didn’t need any blankets, but Eliot charmed one to float over them from some unseen corner nonetheless. It was almost enough to bridge the gap of several inches Eliot had left between their bodies.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The gap between them was a shallow one- literally the few inches between chest and mattress, and it felt deep enough for Quentin to try and drown in all his thoughts. He stared at the ceiling, circling through choice after choice, mistake after mistake; he could have double checked his research on Marina’s, he could have been honest with Matt about what he was trying to learn, he could have called Eliot before trying to raid a top safe house, he could have called Eliot before </span>
  <em>
    <span>joining </span>
  </em>
  <span>a fucking safe house, he could have acted like a god damned grown up for once and done his due diligence before jumping in headfirst. Now, he had his thoughts, the ceiling mocking him with hopes of rest, and Eliot’s voice ringing in the back of his mind, repeating </span>
  <em>
    <span>“what the hell were you thinking?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>over and over.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He swallowed. Quentin knew exactly what he was thinking, and fuck it, Eliot deserved to know. Besides, if his breathing was anything to go by, he was just as awake as Quentin. He paused, exhaled, and finally said what he’d been avoiding for weeks. “...My dad’s dying.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliot stirred beside him. “What”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quentin nodded at the ceiling, at himself, at- it didn’t fucking matter, did it? “My dad. He has...fuck I haven’t actually said it yet, you know?” He bit back a sob, and was half successful.  “He- he has cancer. A brain tumor? It’s, um, it’s pretty far along apparently. And I was- I was looking to see if I could find any healing spells. McNaughton’s didn’t have any, and Marina’s is supposed to be the best, so I- I-” He shook with everything he wasn’t letting his body feel. Rage, hopelessness, disappointment, resignation that </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> this was the best he could do, despite having </span>
  <em>
    <span>literal fucking magic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t even get out of his own messes, how was he supposed to save anyone else?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Q.” Eliot whispered beside him. There was no judgement in his voice- why wasn’t there? He fucking deserved it. There was just sympathy, and concern, and- a million other things that made Quentin want to curl into the smallest ball he could and just- disappear. Eliot rustled besides him. Maybe he was finally cutting his losses, making his way to the couch in the other room he had been so intent on earlier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only, he didn’t get up. Instead, he turned to his side, draping an arm around Quentin’s waist and pulling him in closer. Quentin couldn’t help himself anymore; as Eliot tucked him under his chin, he sobbed. They were small, pathetic barks, less than the wailing he had been expecting since he’d received that first phone call, but it was the most he had let himself feel so far. Eliot’s fingertips trailed up and down his side, in a way that said he was prepared to be composed enough for both of them. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.” he murmured in Quentin’s ear, and Quentin even believed him. Maybe this could be okay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe this could be okay.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>find me on Tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theauditty</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Find me at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theauditty</p><p>(as of 5/3/2020, I've streamlined the tags on this fic a bit, and updated the summary)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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